Intentional Fallacy
by beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: Raphael Gold, PhD, hates grad students (and everyone else). Belle, student of literature and the art of conversation, is unfortunate enough to be saddled with him as her advisor. In the ensuing semester, there will be bourbon shots, silk handcuffs, a broken bed, and what is possibly the most amazing grilled cheese anyone has ever eaten—and no one will ever be the same again.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Please ignore Belle's last name. When I started this fic, I hated French. :D HOPE YOU LIKE THE REST THOUGH.**

* * *

Raphael Gold, PhD, sat at the cramped desk in his too small office, scrolling through his many reviews on _Rate My Professor_. He made time to do this whenever he handed back grades, or when students had just been exposed to their first lecture. This was when they hated him the most, when all of their reviews turned scathing and cruel.

These were his favorite reviews.

It was the middle of the semester, and the senior-level class that he taught on Chaucer had just received their first papers, shredded by his red pen. One person had received an A-. It was the highest grade he'd given.

As such, his reviews had taken that plunge he loved to see—

_Dr Gold is a fucked up basterd. I'm in his chaucer class and I spent a week on a paper and I got a fcking D. Don't take his class unless your suisidal_.

_If you take Gold's class, you will fail. He doesn't give detailed expectations, and then when you don't meet them, he fails you. He is the least communicative professor of all time._

_most arrogant profeessor I have had in all my years. Rude, disrespectful, hostile class environment. I would not recomen this guy or class to my worst enemy. Complete jackass._

And then, the ever eloquent, always present—

_Fuck Doctor Gold. _

It was easy to see the mark of his grading in his reviews—it was also easy to see who was female and who was male. He had the chili pepper to indicate hotness, from all of the female students who craved his approval, and then the reviews that wavered between wanting to hate him for being a hard grader and wanting to praise him for knowing more about literature than anyone in the department. Most of his other category ratings were between 1 and 2, with his highest rating at 2.7. Surprisingly, this was in "overall quality."

The reviews were all accurate, for the most part, but he never felt like an unreasonable man. If anyone came to talk about a grade they'd received—which few did, because they were all terrified—he could always point to each individual error, usually without looking at the assignment. There were a few people who managed to slip past his barricade and earn themselves a good grade, but for the most part, people either dropped or retook his class with another professor.

_Worst professor I've ever had. Spent an entire class lecturing on—_

"Here's your coffee!"

Gold didn't look up at the sound of his teaching assistant's voice. She was used to his inattention anyway.

"Leave it."

"Right here? On the corner of your desk? Or shall I bring it to you?"

"Whatever." He scrolled down the page, making note of another chili pepper by a mediocre review.

She huffed, and began to speak again, but he was done with the interaction, and heard nothing of what she was saying, until she said, "Are you looking at porn, Doctor Gold?"

At this, he looked up, lips pursed. "Can I help you, Miss Blue?"

His TA, Belle Blue, stood before him with her arms full of books, binders, and folders, grinning like a cat pretending it didn't scratch the furniture. He wondered where she had held the coffee.

"I was asking if I could sit in here and read."

"Don't you have an office?" He gestured to the door.

"No." As if she knew that he was going to give in, she started unloading her arms onto the corner of his pristine desk, making the whole thing look less organized by comparison. "I have a cubicle. And that cubicle has a nametag, and that nametag has my name. And every time Jefferson Hatter walks by on the way to his cubicle—which is about every five minutes because I swear that man cannot sit still—he thinks it's so hilarious to poke fun at said name. And—"

Gold raised a hand to cut her off. He was surprised that it worked.

"If I let you stay, will you stop talking?"

"Yes, sir," she said, and all she had to do then was plop into the chair he was mandated to keep in his office, in the event that students willingly came to see him one-on-one.

"Good. Now, organize your things, Miss Blue."

"Why? They're my things." She was already curling up in his chair, kicking off her impractically high heels and settling her skirt to cover the tops of her legs, as though this were her living room and not his office.

"They're on my desk. I do like to maintain order, dearie."

Looking at him with lips pursed, she untucked her legs from beneath her and began to rearrange her pile into something more organized.

* * *

Raphael Gold understood the impulse to make fun of Belle Blue's name. It was nice to say that the name was unfortunate, and in the first week that they'd been thrust together, he'd taken any and all opportunities to make snide remarks as to just how unfortunate it was. When he'd gone so far as to say that her parents were punishing her, Belle had retaliated by informing him that her full name was Isabelle, thank-you-very-much, and Isabelle Blue wasn't nearly so unfortunate as Belle Blue. She couldn't help it that 'Belle' was her nickname.

It was known throughout the English department that Doctor Gold hated teaching assistants. Working at the small, little-known University of Maine Storybrooke, he did not see many brilliant minds coming in. Sure, they boasted an excellent English department, but so few people knew about it that it was difficult to keep their standards up.

He had seen his share of big-headed grad students, intent on doing as little work as possible for huge rewards. A lot of them came to work with him—his work in literary criticism was legendary. Most of them changed their minds midway through the semester in which they happened to meet him. For most of them, this happened by taking his class. For a select few, he deigned to be their dissertation directors, and he only ever advised enough to keep his job.

For the past two years, he had neglected to advise anyone. He had taken on one extra three years ago, because one of his colleagues had fallen ill and was unable to fulfill his own obligations. Gold had been holding this over everyone's head ever since, and because he was such a draw to the program, no one ever questioned it.

Something, however, had told him to take Belle Blue on as his student—the first and only since his 'overload'—and it was not just the dean of graduate studies saying, "Take on Isabelle Blue, or else." He had come to his office one morning to find her writing sample on his desk—and the fact that it attempted to refute one of the first papers he'd ever published caused the thrill of challenge to rise in his veins, and he knew that he had to accept her.

For the past month, his charming arguer had been nothing but a thorn in his side—popping up at inopportune moments, trying to have emotional and heartfelt chats about their backgrounds, giving him cheeky advice on how to teach. Since she was his only grad student, she took on TA responsibilities for all of his classes, as well as teaching three sections of freshman composition herself. She bore the workload well, and somehow found time to submit the weekly dissertation updates that he required.

She was an admirable woman, and he often found himself thinking praises when his colleagues mentioned her name. If only she would just keep her mouth shut—then perhaps he could tolerate her a bit more.


	2. Chapter 2

This was the first time in her life that Belle had ever lived alone. She'd always felt alone—after her mother died and her father became a working alcoholic, she'd spent most of her free time reading. It was easier than making excuses to friends as to why they couldn't come over, or why she couldn't get a ride to their house.

No one in her small town in Pennsylvania had thought she would leave for college. Everyone, of course, thought that the bookworm would go and study books, but they all expected her to stay at home. She'd surprised the whole town by up and moving to Washington D.C., where she took out a loan to accompany her many scholarships to American University. This soon became her permanent home, because her father gambled away his savings and could no longer afford their house.

There, however, she'd always had roommates. From the dorms to the apartments she rented, to the one time she was a live-in nanny, she had been lonely, but never alone. Now, however, that she'd up and moved to Maine after getting her masters degree at American as well, she was forced to find a cheap, one-bedroom flat.

It was a cute flat, she could say that for it. The standard wall color was a soothing mint green—difficult to match, but easy to not-match with antiques, which was what Belle did. Her first trip in Storybrooke, Maine had been to the antique dealer, where she'd gotten a deal on all of the trinkets, figurines, and lace decorations. Her stove may have been off-balance, there may have been a cigarette burn on three separate walls, and her back door may have borne the signs of having once been kicked in, but her apartment was adorable, and she loved it.

Her tea kettle whistled, startling her from the essay she was reading. It was only about seven, but she was in her pajamas and prepared to settle in for the night. Ruby, a masters student a few years her junior and the only friend she had made so far, had informed her that she was going to take her out tonight because it was 'thirsty Thursday,' but Belle had far too much work to do, and so was feigning illness.

She was settled into her rosehip tea, marking up one of her freshmen's essays in purple, when there was a loud pounding on the door. She yelped, almost upsetting her cup, and then looked at the door. Her neighborhood was not the safest around, and even the landlady had suggested that she steer clear of her neighbors and buy a metal baseball bat. No one had ever knocked on her door before.

Trying not to assume the worst—that this was, in fact, the day she was fated to die—she tiptoed out of the chair and to the closet, where she kept the bat. Next, she dug the pepper spray out of her purse and, once armed, she crept toward the door, pausing only to gather herself when there was another bang.

The idea was not to indicate that she was home until it was necessary. Raising onto her toes slowly enough to suggest that the bones in them would make noise if used too quickly, she peeked out the peephole in her door.

There, to her great relief, was not a large man with a gun, but Ruby, wearing almost nothing but some strategic sequins, and another woman dressed like she didn't want to spend the night being groped. After hurrying to tuck the weapons against the corner, she undid the knob lock, the door chain, and the deadbolt, and then swung it open.

"Ruby!"

"Oh, good, I was afraid you weren't home." Up close, Ruby's outfit was even less there. Her dress went from mid-cleavage to upper thigh, and looked like a tube of sparkly lipstick.

"I am working, you know." Belle's eyes strayed toward her friend, who looked familiar. She had a pixie cut and, unlike Ruby, subdued lipstick. Her dress was teal and flared out to her knees, making her look especially modest next to the other woman.

"Tomorrow's Friday. No one even has classes. You can wait until the weekend." Without waiting for a response, Ruby pushed her way into the apartment. She was carrying a large, flowered bag as well as a black clutch. The other woman followed her in, flashing Belle an apologetic smile as she did. She looked familiar, but Belle couldn't place her, so she just smiled in return before closing and bolting the door again.

"Why don't you stay here? I think I've got all the ingredients for Cosmos." _Except Vodka_.

Ruby whirled to face her, hand on her slim hip, red talons tapping away. "Belle. It's been months and you've never been out with me. So we're going. Get dressed."

Belle sighed. It would be nice to not have to do all of Doctor Gold's bitchwork for a night, and she liked Ruby enough to not want to disappoint her.

"I don't have anything to wear."

Ruby looked like she wanted to hop with glee at her triumph, but contained herself. Instead, she reached for Belle's hand and started to drag her to the closet.

"Come on, we'll find something."

* * *

Two entire hours later, the three women were sitting at a table in Ruby's favorite bar, Goldmine. Belle was more made up than she was sure she had ever been—Ruby had pulled out about a hundred different eye shadow colors from her bag and applied more of them to Belle's face than she could count. Somewhere in all of the making up, she had learned that the other woman's name was Mary Margaret Blanchard and that she was the youngest faculty member in the English department, having done a joint masters and doctorate degree at the University of Maine. She was, in fact, younger than Belle, which was why she felt okay coming out with them.

Once finished painting Belle a new face, Ruby had torn apart her closet. It seemed that her method for choosing a dress was finding the thing that both Belle and Mary Margaret liked the least. She dug up a dress that Belle had bought years before, when she was more easily convinced to go out with her friends. It had no sequins, which Ruby did lament, but it was cut low enough that she forgave this fault. The dress was a golden, cap-sleeved number that went just low enough down Belle's thighs that she didn't feel the need to tug it every few minutes. Ruby paired it with some satin blue heels and all of the blue jewelry she could find about Belle's room. For the last touch, she curled Belle's hair, and then declared that they were taking a taxi—her treat.

At the bar, Ruby bought none of her own drinks, and she urged Belle and Mary Margaret to follow her lead. In the end, Ruby had been forced to go up to three different men standing alone and inform them that her friends were too shy to say anything, but they usually warmed up after a drink or three. This was how Belle and Mary Margaret came to be delivered free appletinis against their will.

"Do you go out with Ruby a lot?" Belle asked, fingering the stem of her glass.

"Sometimes." She took a small sip of her martini. "Ruby usually goes with me if I need a second person, so I figure it's only fair, right?" She chuckled and Belle smiled.

"Sounds fair." She took a sip of her own drink, and winced. It wasn't very apple-y. "Oh, this is awful."

Mary Margaret laughed. "Well, why do you think this is Ruby's favorite bar? Because they make weak drinks?"

"Belle." Ruby appeared at their table again, face flushed. "You have to come with me."

"Where?" Belle asked, wincing at her drink again.

"Over there." She pointed to a corner where there were three guys standing and drinking beer.

"But we're fine here, aren't we?"

Ruby gave her a look, like she had suggested something foolish and outlandish. "We're at a bar, Belle. You have to meet someone."

"Why doesn't Mary Margaret have to meet someone?"

At this, Mary Margaret flushed all the way to the tips of her ears. Ruby, however, just waved a hand.

"Because she's boring. Come on, let's go."

"Do you think I could get a different drink?" Belle asked, resigning herself to leaving their nice, safe, lonely table. "This one is just green vodka."

Ruby pursed her lips. "Belle, don't you know what to do with bad drinks?"

Belle glanced at Mary Margaret, who shook her head. "Um—throw them away?"

"You chug them. Come on. Live a little."

"Oh, I couldn't—"

"Chug, chug, chug." Ruby leaned toward her on the table, still chanting. Belle felt a small twinge of betrayal when Mary Margaret joined in, but being ganged up on made her resolve difficult. She hadn't had any drunk fun in years. The last few times had all been alone, and she was choosing to pretend those didn't exist. So, steeling herself, she tipped her head back and chugged.

* * *

Two martinis apiece later, the three women were standing at their table with their new friends—Gaston, Billy, and Victor. Ruby had all but assigned each man to one of her friends, claiming Billy the mechanic for herself.

"I'm in sports management," Gaston was saying to Belle. He had gone through three beers, and was leaning in closer than Sober Belle would have allowed. Drunk Belle, however, was leaning toward him as though he were divulging scandalous secrets.

"That's so interesting," she said, taking a sip of her fourth martini. "What do you do in sports management?"

"Well, I'm on the coaching track, but I think I'll go into the business side eventually. I want to own teams, you know? Owning's where the money is."

"You have to get a masters degree to know how to own things?" She tilted her head to the side, neck feeling like liquid. Her whole body felt like the bones had become stretchier, and she found it easy to swing around on the stool when she needed to direct her attention to different people.

He didn't laugh, just wrinkled his nose, but Belle laughed at her own question for him.

"This is just until I start owning. I coach some little league teams. The boys really look up to me. I'm kind of a role model for them."

Instead of nodding, Belle tipped back some more of her martini. It was easier.

"They would have to—you're very tall."

He didn't seem to get the joke, but Belle laughed again, content to be funny only to herself. She was sure that Ruby and Mary Margaret would have been amused, and probably most of the people she worked with.

"So what do you do? Do you work in the office?" He scanned the bar, like he wasn't particularly interested in her answer. Belle took his chin in her hand and turned him toward her. It was just rude not to look. After that, though, he leaned in a little closer, looking a little happier to be in her company.

"I am getting my doctorate in this language. English. And list—late—lit—books. I'm getting my doctorate in books."

"Oh, so you're like a librarian?"

"No." She shook her head. "You have to have a degree in libraries to be a librarian. I'm going to be a teacher."

"Oh, what grade? Kindergarten?"

Sober Belle would have found this tiresome to explain. Drunk Belle was just wishing there was more in her glass.

"No, you have to have a degree in elementary education to be a kindergarten teacher. My degree is in English. Besides, Doctor Gold would be very unhappy if I went into children teaching." She snorted.

At the mention of Doctor Gold, Gaston's face soured.

"Doctor Gold? That dick?"

"Yes, that one." Belle wondered if Gold knew how far is reputation stretched.

"He gave a guest lecture in my sports law class. Total bastard. Treated us like shit."

"Why would he give a guest lecture in sports? He's not athletic." The thought of Doctor Gold playing any sport made her want to chuckle.

"He's a lawyer. Worked on some case with the Patriots a decade ago."

"The Patriots? Really?" That was interesting. She made a mental note to ask him later that she hoped she would remember.

"Hey," he said, leaning toward her. Their foreheads were about an inch apart. "Could I call you sometime?"

It took Belle a few seconds to comprehend that he was asking for her number, because he liked her enough to want to call her and see her again.

"Of course." She found a cocktail napkin and pulled it over, then dug a pen out of her purse to write her number on it. When she was finished, she slid it over to him. He pocketed it.

"Cool. I'll call you."

"Hey!"

They both looked up at the sound of Mary Margaret's 'date.'

"We're getting shots. You in?"

"Yeah, totally," Gaston said. "You can put hers on my tab."

He pointed at Belle, who didn't think this was necessarily a good idea, but was too drunk to really know the difference.

"Shots it is," she agreed, downing the rest of her drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Belle was certain that she had never been more drunk in her entire life than she had been the night before. She had also never been drunk on a work night.

It was 24 hours of the worst firsts possible.

After two rounds of shots, she'd almost fallen asleep on Gaston, so Billy had taken all of the women home because he was sober. Ruby had told Belle to throw up before going to sleep, or she would regret it, but Belle hadn't wanted to throw up. Now, she was regretting it.

She was already awake when her alarm rang at nine. She'd only slept for a few hours before she'd woken up, restless and sick, and then turned on her TV to watch infomercials until it was time to drag herself out of bed. It was important to stay hydrated and replace nutrients, but the only things that didn't make her want to cry were water and toast, so she put some bread in the toaster and took a water bottle into the shower with her.

Since dressing herself wasn't her top priority when she felt like any moment could inspire projectile vomit, she put on some black sweatpants and a blouse. This, she reasoned, was logical. No one would notice that they were sweats if she wore a blouse and some cute shoes.

Makeup was also not happening, and the best she could do was comb her hair and put it in a clip. People were used to seeing her looking poised and professional, but it was Friday, so she hoped this was okay. If anyone asked, she would just tell them that she had food poisoning—yes, that was also logical and reasonable.

Even though most people in Storybrooke were taking advantage of the mid-fifties weather by only wearing light sweaters and shoes without socks, Belle wrapped her blue trench around herself, wishing that socks would look okay with her matching ballet flats.

She drove to campus, because walking that far sounded like sadness in activity form, and driving only sounded inconvenient. She tried to nibble her toast, but mostly, it just made her want to die, so she just brought two bottles of water and sipped from them. By the time she got to her office, she allowed that she was feeling fairly hydrated.

Her cubicle was not the chamber of solitude she wanted it to be. Within two minutes of being there, Jefferson appeared, which always meant loudness.

"Bluebell! Looking good this—" He stopped, his usual greeting dying in his throat as he looked at her. He moved his lips a great deal, looking like he was trying not to burst into unmanly giggles. "You look like shit."

"Good morning, Jefferson," she said to her desk. "I have grading to do."

"Right. Grading." He winked, then rapped on her desk twice. "Later."

A mere thirty seconds after that, and he was playing electronica so loudly, Belle thought her brain would explode.

She slapped her pen onto her desk, which was littered with hundreds of other pens and sticky notes, and then rubbed her temples. She needed to figure something out. She had office hours today. No one was going to come to them, of course, but she had them and she needed to be there. That's what she was getting her stipend for.

With her only option looming up in front of her, Belle almost wished she had just died of alcohol poisoning. Sighing, she pulled a sticky note off the pad and penned her whereabouts. She almost didn't want to do this, because then Jefferson could find her, but her guilt at being unfindable won out, and so she stuck the note to the front of her desk.

Dr. Gold was at his desk, as she'd expected, but that was about as far as her expectations corresponded with reality. Instead of looking at his computer or attacking essays with his famed red pen, he was hunched over his desk with what looked like a pair of fancy tweezers in one hand and a tiny screwdriver in the other. The surface of the desk was littered with tiny screws and metal parts, illuminated by a florescent desk lamp. Gold was squinting, and his tongue poked between his teeth as he lowered the weird tweezers and picked up a piece that, to Belle, looked like every other piece. He was so concentrated, he didn't notice her arrive.

"Dr. Gold?"

She kept her voice low, but he still jumped, dropping the tiny thing in the tweezers. He clenched his jaw, closing his eyes, and Belle was sure that he was actually counting to ten in silence. When he opened them, the smile he gave her made her feel like he was hiding a gun under the table, with which he was planning to shoot her.

"What can I do for you, dearie?"

Was that a term of endearment? Belle was never quite sure, but she knew didn't like it. Faced with the brunt of his annoyance, Belle was starting to feel like death by electronica was a better fate than standing here. The excuses she had been preparing sounded lame, but she couldn't just interrupt him and leave. Then he would hate her more. Besides, she didn't want to give the impression that she backed down just because he looked at her angrily. She wasn't a child.

"It's loud in my cubicle."

"It's loud in your cubicle." He set his tools down, turned off the desk light, and folded his fingers, looking her up and down. When he had finished his appraisal, his grin looked more amused, more impish and evil—his 'I just gave you an F and I enjoyed it' smile. Belle thought she ought to start talking.

"Yes, Jefferson has been playing his music on full volume and I—I have food poisoning. So I haven't been feeling well." Belle was not a good liar, and as much as she had repeated this one to herself, she still felt it stick in her throat, getting trapped on her tongue as she tried to spit it out.

"Food poisoning."

It was almost more disconcerting just to have him repeat her. Still, she wouldn't let herself be cowed.

"Yes. Food poisoning."

"Right. Well, it seems as though you cannot be stopped, so have a seat, Miss Blue." He made a sweeping gesture toward the guest chair. Belle couldn't help but assume this was a trap, but since she could find no reasonable excuse for not doing as he said, she was forced to cooperate.

After sitting, she looked up to find Gold watching her, holding his trashcan out to her.

"Wastebasket, dearie?"

Belle eyed him, not moving forward. "No, thank you. Why would I want a wastebasket?"

"In case your 'food poisoning' takes you by surprise."

"It is food poisoning," she insisted, moving around in her chair like a ruffled chicken. "And I am very ill, so I appreciate it."

He nodded, setting the basket down, and then leaned back in his chair to watch her get settled. Despite her excuse to Jefferson, she had no grading to do, and planned on sitting and staring blankly—perhaps watch Dr. Gold use his tweezers on the metal bits scattered about his desk. When she'd first walked in, she almost found the intensity and enjoyment with which he was working to be attractive.

"Now, then," Gold said, reaching around to the other side of his desk.

"What?"

He slapped a manila folder in front of her. It was stuffed with so much paper that the spine was more a suggestion than an actual binding fold.

"Since you're here, you can grade for me." Next came the red pen, and then Gold leaned back in his chair and gave her an impish grin. How could she ever have thought he was attractive?

"But—what?"

"Well, you're in my office, you've clearly brought nothing to do, and it is your job, dearie. Prompt's inside. It's for my graduate class on Marxism. I trust you know enough about Marx."

Belle's stomach lurched at the thought. She had tried to read her texts this morning, and it made her want to vomit. Reading over all of Gold's papers might kill her.

"Could I take them home and give them to you Monday?" She tried to keep herself from sounding like a whiny child—she was merely making a proposition. Gold liked to work in deals.

"Why do tomorrow what you can do today? You're here, aren't you? With nothing to do? I mean, clearly, you worked very hard on preparing yourself for the day, so you should seize it."

Why did she think that a blouse would fix the sweatpants? She was such an idiot.

"It's just—the print is small, and you know how tedious Marxism can be even in the largest print." She didn't even know what she was saying anymore. She needed to stop talking.

"Small print? Miss Blue, you've got food poisoning, not a hangover. I think you can handle small print."

He knew. She knew that he knew. The way he was grinning at her, more evil than amused, told her that. Now, she could never tell him the truth.

"Right. Not a hangover." She ran a hand through her hair, stopping when her fingers met the clip, and tried to gain an air of nonchalance. "But food poisoning can still be tricky on the eyes, you know. Especially if it comes from carrots."

He pressed his lips together. Belle wished she had no vocal chords. Carrots? Really?

"I'll tell you what." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on either side of his organized mess, and tilted his head enough to look jaunty. "You admit that you are hung-over, and I will grade the papers."

He regarded her with cool interest, one eyebrow quirked. Belle might have confessed to it when she walked in the door, but now, he would have to pry the truth out of her cold, dead fingers. Setting her mouth in a flat line, she reached for the red pen, and then slapped the folder open.

"Suit yourself," Gold said, shrugging. He reached to turn his light back on, and then picked up the tweezers to go back to work.

After awhile, it seemed that he was again too engrossed in his mechanical work to notice her, which was good, because she had to pause every minute or so and swallow her nausea. The reading was giving her a headache, and the violence of the red pen was doing nothing to help. She wanted to get her own purple grading pen out, but she knew that Gold would have a fit.

_They notice red_, he had explained when she'd tried to talk him into a softer color after the first week of classes. _It makes them think, and then they improve._ Belle shook her head at the thought, slashing through an unattached quote.

She was writing a detailed comment on the fifth paper, trying to ignore the nausea rising in her throat, when she heard footsteps, and then a knock. She and Dr. Gold looked up to find an undergrad girl standing there, clutching a binder to her chest. She didn't look at Dr. Gold—probably because there was always the chance of being turned to stone from direct eye contact.

"Oh, Belle, you're in here."

Belle smiled and nodded, and this seemed to make the girl feel better. She recognized her face from the times she'd sat in on Dr. Gold's Chaucer lecture, but she did not know her name.

"I came to talk to Dr. Gold, but—are you all right?"

The girl looked concerned. Belle glanced at Dr. Gold, whose lips were moving as though he were trying to hide his amusement, and not doing a good job.

"Oh, I'm fine. And Dr. Gold is right h—"

Which was when Belle was forced to whirl around in her chair, and throw up into the wastebasket.

* * *

The girl was not easy to calm. Once Belle finished heaving, and then dry heaving, and then heaving again, and then dry heaving just a bit more, Dr. Gold offered her an opened water bottle and a tissue, saying nothing. Belle rinsed and spit, wiping her mouth with the tissue, and then tried to look composed when she emerged from the bin.

Dr. Gold had to usher the girl out and insist, in the nicest voice Belle had ever heard him use, that he would see her in half an hour. When she was gone, he turned, resting against his cane and staring at her. Belle felt her cheeks burning.

"Dr. Gold, I am so sorry. I will empty your garbage and disinfect it and even get you a new one, if you want." She started to stand up, but the look he gave her had her back down in an instant.

"Miss Blue, it is a garbage can. The idea is for dirty things to go inside of it. You don't need to disinfect it or get me a new one. Now." She started to stand up, but he lowered her with another look.

"Yes?"

"Go rinse your mouth and brush your teeth or whatever to clean yourself up, and then I expect you back here." He stepped aside to give her a clear path to the door, and when she tried standing this time, he did not glare.

"To finish grading?" She pressed a hand to her head. Her stomach felt better now that there was nothing in it, but her head was starting to pound.

"Perhaps." He smiled his mysterious smile, the one he gave when he wanted to scare his students the most, and Belle found herself properly cowed by it. Instead of showing it, she skirted past him, careful not to let any part of her body touch any part of his.

Once in the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like she had just crawled out of quicksand. Her face was all one color—pasty—and her eyes were red and watery. Her hair had dried into a frizzy mess, so she took the clip out because it wasn't helping anything. She'd brought the water bottle with her, because she didn't trust school tap water, and rinsed her mouth a few more times before getting some gum from her purse and popping it into her mouth. There was nothing she could do about her face but add lipstick, since that was the only cosmetic she kept in her purse, but at least it gave her some color. There was nothing to be done about her blouse, so she just tried to straighten it.

When she felt she looked presentable, she made her way back to Dr. Gold's office, steeling herself for another thousand or so essays. She was shocked by the sight that greeted her instead.

Gold sat behind his desk, playing with his tools again, but she could tell that he was less focused this time because he paused at the sound of her footsteps, though he didn't look up. The chair she had been sitting in had now been joined by another chair, and they were facing each other with about a foot of space between them. On the chair facing the doorway, Gold had fashioned Belle's coat into a pillow. His own coat—a longer, warmer black trench—was draped across the two chairs like a blanket.

"Dr. Gold?" she whispered, staring at the spectacle like she was afraid it might burst into flame.

"Just lie down, Miss Blue." He looked stiff, and his knuckles were red from clutching his tiny screwdriver so tightly.

"Are you sure? I can still grade. I'll be fine." That was a lie.

He looked up, snorting in amusement. "My wastebasket begs to differ. Come now, lie down, dearie. You deserve a rest."

Belle couldn't argue with that, so she made herself as comfortable as she could on two old chairs that were pushed together, and covered herself with his coat. It was warm, and smelled like spicy cologne that was light enough not to make her nauseous. Belle had to remind herself that it would be super weird to press her face into her professor's coat.

"Now, would you care to tell me about your night, dearie?" he asked, switching the light off again and leaning back in his chair. She couldn't tell if he was just being polite—vomit changed people—or if he was genuinely interested in hearing. Nonetheless, she couldn't help but be a little excited to recount some of last night's fun.

"You sure you want to hear about it?" She burrowed deeper into the makeshift bed.

"I'd like nothing more than to have something like that to hold over your head, Miss Blue." But this time, his smile looked real, and Belle smiled back before beginning her tale.


	4. Chapter 4

Gold was not sure when he had started to care for Belle, but the realization that he did hit him like an anvil. Hate came easily to him, and it was his first response to everyone. He had known from the moment he met her that it would take a bit of active work to keep up his hate for her, but he had never imagined that it would be so easily wiped away.

Not that he liked her, or anything. No, the dislike was still there. He just didn't hate her, and maybe cared a little bit about her health and emotional well-being. That was all.

It happened when he least expected it—one minute, he was teasing her for being unable to admit that she was in an inappropriate working state, and the next, jealousy was flaring up like a disease when one of his students was being more caring than he. He couldn't help that, when the girl returned half an hour later, he'd been less than helpful in his 'constructive' criticism of her paper.

This weekend, thus, was time for an intervention on himself. He would spend the next forty-eight hours dwelling on all of her faults, and why he should hate her as much as he hated everyone else.

He started bright and early Saturday morning, while he was brushing his teeth. Her teeth, he recalled, were too straight and white. She was obviously vain, especially based on the fact that she had paired a blouse with her sweatpants—because really, a nice shirt with sweats? It screamed vanity.

Once wearing his casual Saturday three-piece suit and on his way to his pawn shop, he reminded himself that Belle smiled far too much. Was anyone really that happy? If they were, then they were just stupid. People like him understood the value of making one's displeasure known, instead of hiding it behind the veneer of a smile. So Belle was either stupid, or a liar.

While he unlocked the pawn shop door, he considered the way Belle had no respect for a closed or locked office. In fact, she had no visible respect for him at all—always sweeping in, trying to ask how he felt about things, acting like they should be having engaging conversations instead of staying in separate rooms until necessary. That woman did not respect her superiors, or anyone's privacy.

The woman who kept shop during the week had kept the register neat and clean, just as he demanded it. He doubted that Belle Blue had ever kept anything neat and clean in her entire life. It was disgusting how her mess spilled over onto his pristine desk. He hated even more when she put stacks of his favorite books in the corner, like she was just taunting him with their common interests.

When the bell tinkled a few hours later, indicating the door being opened, he was recalling—with distaste, of course—the way Belle had glared at him, the way her mouth set and brow furrowed into two thick lines at the bridge of her nose, the way her nostrils flared like an angry bull, the way her eyes were as blue as her last name.

He looked up to offer assistance to whoever had just walked in, thinking of how Belle was always offering her help like some pushy saleswoman, and then he made a noise like a cat that had been stepped on.

"Dr. Gold?" Belle asked, and for her part, at least, she looked as startled as he felt.

"Miss Blue." His voice was toneless, and he took a second to mentally congratulate himself on his ability to be bland at all times.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

He was too floored by her presence to remember the answer to that question. For all that he had been trying to intervene on himself, he had really just spent the entire morning thinking of nothing but Belle.

Then, he saw the bottom of the sign through the glass door, and remembered that she had asked him something. He put on his best sneer, leaning back in his chair and folding his fingers together.

"I own this shop, Miss Blue." He pointed his chin toward the sign.

"You're the Gold of Gold's Pawnbroker and Antique Dealer?" She looked around the room, as if just seeing it for the first time—which, he allowed, she probably was—and then her gaze landed on him. "Why?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Well, you are the highest paid faculty member at UMS. And this is a pawn shop." She flopped her hand toward the walls, where he stored all of the antique trinkets and knick-knacks.

"I guess I'm just full of surprises, dearie."

She was looking around the shop, wringing her hands together, standing around like a confused puppy. He didn't think that this whole situation was really that confusing.

"So, this has always been your shop?" she asked, gaze falling on him.

"As long as it's been here." He didn't tell her that he owned almost every building in town. There was no need to alarm her further.

"Are you in the habit of making deals with customers?"

That was an odd question. Even Gold was surprised by it, but he thought he contained that pretty well, behind his forced smile and blank eyes.

"What sort of deals, dearie?"

"Oh, you know. Young woman walks in with only a fifty to decorate and furnish her apartment. Walks out with at least two hundred dollars worth of merchandise. That sort of thing."

That didn't sound like him at all.

"We don't sell apartment furnishings," he said instead of responding.

"Not furniture, no. But lamps, dishes. Things like that."

He made a mental note to fire the woman who kept shop during the week. According to Belle, she had wasted over a hundred and fifty dollars.

"Did you furnish your apartment in my shop?"

She nodded. "The man working here was very accommodating."

"The man?" He frowned. What man?

"Yes, he was bald. I think he mentioned his name was Luke. Or Hans. Or Lars." She shrugged.

"Or Dove?" He supposed he couldn't fault the man for being charmed by Belle's cajoling smile and lady parts.

"Whatever, I was close." She waved a hand.

"Oh, very close, dearie."

She pursed her lips, hand coming to rest on her jutting hip. "Anyway, he gave me a good deal on a tea set, and a lamp, and a sofa cover to cover the mysterious stain on mine that I choose to believe isn't from sex."

He almost choked. Why was she so casually throwing out the idea that she had stained her couch having sex on it? Was she trying to kill him?

"You don't know what the stain on your couch came from, Miss Blue?"

"I got it on Craig's List."

His heart calmed down a little, or maybe it was his stomach, or maybe it was somewhere lower, to which he couldn't be bothered to pay attention right now because it was inconvenient. Probably his toes. He made a mental note never to intervene with himself again. It only made things worse.

"That's disgusting. How much was it?"

She glanced away, playing with the part of her shirt that she'd bloused over the waistband of her skirt. "Seventy."

This time, he did choke a bit. He wasn't sure if it was from amusement, horror, or some mixture of the two. "I assume you expected the odd stain here and there?"

"Well, of course." She folded her arms. "I bought a sheet set, too, to covered it as much as I could, but that looked ugly, so I bought the cover to cover the sheets."

"This is all very convoluted, dearie."

"Would you care to have lunch?"

He almost jumped. "I'm sorry?"

"Lunch. The meal most people eat midday. Would you like to eat it with me? It's almost noon. I was going to head over to Granny's." She jerked her thumb, as if he didn't know where Granny's was.

"Are you just trying to con an old man into a free meal?"

"Maybe." She spun on the ball of her right foot, skirt belling out around her thighs, and started for the door. A few steps away and she paused, looking over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"

Of course he wasn't coming. Why on earth would he choose to spend his Saturday afternoon with someone who represented the bane of his existence—college students?

"I'll be there in a minute."

* * *

So, yes, he had lunch that afternoon with Belle Blue. He also had lunch with her the next day, and then Monday, and then every day that week. He wasn't sure how this kept happening, because every time she invited him, he was certain he would say no. Then, his treacherous mouth would come out with something like, _I'll be there in a minute_, or _let me just finish entering these grades_, or—the most beastly of all—_I'd love to_.

The real problem with that last statement was that it was horribly, unreasonably, undeniably true. It had taken an hour, just one hour, spent sitting across from her at a sticky booth at Granny's eating burgers and fries, to turn him into this sad excuse for a man, a man who pined behind his desk, waiting for a woman at least fifteen years his junior to come invite him to lunch. The worst part was that she always did, and then he was left counting the hours until lunch time the next day, like some schoolboy with a crush.

At least they didn't go to Granny's every day. Gold consoled himself with the idea that he was exposing her to the culture of Storybrooke, giving her the chance to eat at restaurants she had no idea existed. He always paid, because he was a gentleman, and because when the check came, she always thumbed through the money in her wallet and then reached for her credit card, chewing on her cherry lips, and this made him feel bad and want to make her stop drawing attention to her mouth.

On Monday, they went for pizza—half mushroom and pepperoni for Belle, and half sausage and peppers for Gold—and Belle was charmed by the Italian owner, who, after Gold privately assured him of a week's extension on his rent, pulled out all the stops to impress her. On Tuesday, they went to a bistro for sandwiches, and Belle traded him half of her Caprese melt for half of his smoked salmon croissant, and he extended the rent due date for a bottle of 'complimentary' champagne. On Wednesday, Belle dragged him to a Pho restaurant that he didn't own and to which he had never paid much attention, coercing him into trying a bowl with beef offal without explaining what it was, and then gloating when he discovered that he was eating cow stomach and liking it. On Thursday, he tried to be grumpy about the stomach-eating incident, but Belle smiled and batted her eyelashes, and so they went to a small hut on the water where they served the best lobster in town, and he taught her how to crack and eat a whole one.

That day, Friday, he'd told her that he wasn't telling her where they were going, and then, because he occasionally fancied himself a bit of a gangster, blindfolded her and bound her hands with a silk scarf for the journey. Every time he glanced over at her, blind face turned toward the window of his Cadillac, he allowed himself a small chuckle.

"You know, if anyone looks inside, they're going to think you're kidnapping me." She turned to him, eyebrows raised above the blue cloth.

"Who says I'm not?"

"It's not kidnapping if I came willingly." She turned again, drumming her fingers on her thigh. "Are you going to take me into the restaurant like this?"

"Well, that depends, dearie." He glanced at her, biting his lip so that he wouldn't laugh—he was a continuous amusement to himself.

"On what? I think the whole place would jump you if you did, you know. People don't seem to like you much."

He ignored the barb. He didn't much care what people thought of him when the woman in his front seat was alone with him, blindfolded and bound, and still smiling.

"It depends on how much you cooperate. If you start giving me trouble—well, I'll just have to keep you restrained, won't I?" He was glad she couldn't see him. He was certain that he hadn't smiled this much in a long time. It must have been at least twenty-four hours.

"What if I promise to behave?" She wiggled around in her seat until she had one leg tucked under her and was leaning toward him.

"I can't trust that. Promises are easy to break, dearie."

"But you have my word!"

"Your word?" He glanced at her, tempted to reach over and trace the lines on her forehead. "I'm a literature professor. I've got too many words, I don't want yours."

"All right, fine. Let's make a deal, then. You like deals, right, Dr. Gold?"

He pulled into a parking spot, too amused to speak while doing so. Once the car was off, and Belle had tried to look around despite the thick cloth over her eyes, he turned to her.

"That I do. And when two people have something the other wants, a deal can always be struck. Now then—what do I have that you want?"

"Well, I want this blindfold off, for one," she said, reaching up and flapping her useless hands near it. "And then I'd like to use my hands, possibly to strangle you."

"Well, that's not much incentive for me to untie you, now is it, dearie?" But he would have untied her to strangle him—he would have untied her if it meant she would touch him anywhere, in any way, even if it was ripping his heart out of his chest. He tried not to think about that.

"Okay, okay, I promise not to strangle you. And I promise to behave. Will you untie me now?" She thrust her arms toward him.

He chuckled, reaching over to undo the knot. He tried not to caress her hands any more than was necessary to get the scarf off.

"Very well. I will untie your hands and then assess your behavior."

"And if it reaches your standards, you'll take the blindfold off?" She bit her lip, and he had the fearful thought that she knew the gesture made him weak-kneed. He brushed this off with the knowledge that he had seen her bite her lip at others before, and that it was just a habit born of being a woman with nice lips.

"If you promise to continue to behave, I will take the blindfold off, yes."

"I promise." She saluted, and he had to reach up to keep her from smacking her fingers against the rearview mirror.

"Best get out before you hurt yourself."

Once they were both out, and he was standing on the sidewalk with one hand on his cane and one hovering over the small of Belle's back, she turned to him.

"Well?"

"You have kept up your end of the deal with remarkable aplomb."

He moved behind her to untie the blindfold, and then he felt a small twinge of sadness that he could not see her face when she laughed at his remark.

"Aplomb?"

"Indeed."

He slid the cloth off of her eyes, folding it up and putting it in his coat pocket while he gave her time to look at the restaurant. He had brought her to Sakura, a building which stood alone amidst its rock garden and cherry blossom trees. It was one of the most expensive restaurants in Storybrooke, and he knew that Belle knew this as soon as the smile slid from her face. She took a step back, almost colliding with him.

"Oh, Dr. Gold, I can't afford this. We should go somewhere else—I saw a Thai place yesterday, maybe we—"

"Belle." His lips were right by her ear, and he all but hissed her name, the corners of his lips twitching when she froze. "You're not behaving."

Her eyes darted to the side, and then she sprang forward as though she hadn't expected to find him there.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to step on you. But, really, Dr. Gold—"

He held a finger up to stop her, and was surprised when she actually fell silent.

"First, you didn't step on me. If you had, I would have told you, and you'd be apologizing on your knees." He paused, giving her time to realize it was a joke and chuckle. "Second, of course you can't afford this, but that's okay, because you're not paying."

"But, Dr. Gold—"

"You haven't paid all week. Why would I let you now?"

"Yes, but I could have. I had enough money. Here, I really can't pay. Well." She tipped her head to each side, like she was weighing scales. "I mean, I could. But then I couldn't buy groceries."

"And then you would starve, and get skinny and ugly." He started toward the restaurant, putting his hand where the small of her back should have been, and would be when she decided to face the right direction. "So it's better for everyone's eyes if you just let me pay, like I was going to anyway."

Lips pursed, she turned and allowed him to guide her in. When it came to restaurants that he owned, dining usually went one of two ways. Either he was treated with open hostility, as was the case with Granny's and some of the smaller establishments, or the staff bent over backwards to please him. Because it was so popular, he had never had a rent problem with Sakura, so they had no reason to resent him, but they had heard stories and they did fear him. Their seating host bowed four times—once when they arrived, once when Gold asked for a table for two, once when they were forced to stop and wait for a waiter carrying a tray full of hot soup, and then once when they arrived at their tiny, candlelit corner table.

Apparently, the establishment was under the impression that this was a date. He wasn't going to correct them.

"This is so nice," Belle whispered, hands clasped in her lap. The restaurant had a pinkish glow, lit only by lamps covered in paper shades, and candles on every table. The curtains in their room were drawn to keep the ambiance. Their waiter came by with a pot of complimentary tea that Gold had neither requested nor paid for, which was a plus.

"I'd hoped you'd like it." He had his hand resting on the side of the table, tapping along the edge like something would happen, too afraid of what would be on his face to look at her when he spoke.

"How could I not? Though, I do wish we could see out the windows. It was gorgeous outside."

He looked up. "Do you want a different table?"

She shook her head, laughing. "No, I think our waiter would fall over himself if we asked him to move us. There was a lot of bowing going on. Have you noticed that everyone treats you like a god?"

He pressed his lips together, and shrugged. "Do they? It must be my face. I've been told I'm dangerously handsome by a number of students in my reviews."

At this, she laughed outright, covering her mouth when the couple nearest them looked over.

"What? You don't think so?"

"Oh, you're very handsome, Dr. Gold." She shook her head, still laughing, and reached for her tea to cover her mouth.

Gold felt his stomach drop. In the past week, she had ceased to be 'Miss Blue,' and was instead 'Belle,' all the time. He wished he could tell her to just call him Raphael, but he was still her professor and he couldn't find a way to do it that wasn't weird, or out of place.

"Good. Now, what strange thing are you going to make me eat today?"

The smile she gave him might have intimidated a lesser man—and, okay, it intimidated him a little bit, too, but that didn't mean that he didn't like it.

"Octopus."


	5. Chapter 5

It had been so long since Belle had been this happy for such an extended period of time. Sure, she was an optimistic woman and always had been, but just because she put on a brave face and made the best of things, it didn't mean she was happy. Even as much as she liked Ruby, and now Mary Margaret, she found that she put up much more resistance to being dragged out by them than she did to being taken out by Dr. Gold—that didn't even take her any self-convincing. After the first day, she'd found herself inviting him with hardly a thought, and then floating through the rest of her day as though she wasn't doing enough work to kill her.

Her overarching good mood was probably what led her to agreeing to Ruby and Mary Margaret coming over for breakfast when Ruby called and woke her at nine that Saturday morning. It had sounded urgent, and Belle couldn't find it in her heart to be annoyed—which was weird, because Saturday was the only day she slept, and she hoarded that morning unconsciousness like a mouse hoarded its cheese.

She hummed while she showered, and continued to hum while she was putting the coffee on. She was still humming when there was a knock on the door and she had to undo all of the bolts, and stopped only when Ruby shoved past her, leading a distraught looking Mary Margaret.

"What's wrong?" Belle asked, bolting the door before running to get mugs.

"Oh, nothing," Mary Margaret said, her voice too high and her eyes too watery. "How are you?"

Belle and Ruby exchanged looks. Mary Margaret tried to join in, but both women busied themselves with preparing things—Belle the dishes, and Ruby the bagels.

"Do you want cream cheese, Mary Margaret?" Ruby asked.

"Yes, please. Thank you. Belle, do you have a cutting board and a knife? I'll cut the tomato."

Belle wasn't sure this was the best idea with Mary Margaret looking like she'd seen a ghost, but she didn't want to insult her, and so she set about finding the requested utensils. The knife in her hand seemed to make Mary Margaret feel better, though, and she almost didn't notice that Belle and Ruby had stopped what they were doing to stare at her like concerned, gawky parents.

"You guys, I'm fine. I appreciate this, but really, I'm fine." She forced a smile, tossing her bangs out of her forehead so that she wouldn't have to meet their eyes.

"So you woke me up because you're fine?" Belle asked, pouring some cinnamon creamer into her coffee mug before topping it off with coffee.

Mary Margaret's eyes widened, and she pointed the knife at her as an extension of her finger. "No, Ruby woke you up. Not me. It wasn't me."

Ruby folded her arms, jutting her hip out to rest against Belle's counter. "Well, I wouldn't have had to wake her up if I hadn't found you at Granny's, crying into your tea."

Mary Margaret squeaked. "I was not crying into my tea!"

Instead of acknowledging this, Ruby turned to Belle, who was stirring her cup slowly while she watched the back and forth. "I would have taken her back to my place, but Granny is so judgmental."

"I understand." Belle shrugged, a smile flitting across the corners of her mouth without her consent at the thought of the diner.

"Belle, what are you—"

Belle cut Ruby off, hurrying to school her face into an appropriate expression. "Oh, Mary Margaret, would you like some coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?"

"Coffee's fine." Mary Margaret set the tomato knife down, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "Yours smells good. However you did it is fine with me."

Belle nodded and hurried to start fixing her a cup while Ruby watched with annoying shrewdness. She knew there would be questions, but for now, Mary Margaret needed them and she was going to be a good friend. Besides, she had nothing to hide. She just knew that, as active members of the English department, both women were going to think she was insane for enjoying eating meals with Dr. Gold, the beast of UMS, and even more for planning to do just that as soon as they left, whether she was hungry or not.

Once they were all sitting around the table, and Ruby and Belle had lulled Mary Margaret into a false sense of security by chatting about television while they prepared their bagels, Ruby pounced again.

"So tell us what happened."

Mary Margaret jumped, nearly dropping her bagel. "It's nothing. Really."

"Mary Margaret." Belle laid a hand on her arm, and the woman looked at her. "You can tell us. If it's a problem, we can help."

"Is this about David?" Ruby asked, and Mary Margaret squeaked.

"David?" Belle repeated, eyebrows knit together.

Mary Margaret sighed and set her bagel down to fiddle with the handle of her coffee mug, running her finger along the curve of porcelain as though trying to hold its hand.

"I left him this morning."

Ruby gasped, but since Belle had no idea what was going on, she just took a sip of coffee.

"Who?"

"David. He's a biology professor—he teaches a class on animal development—and he's—"

Mary Margaret said the last word so quietly, Belle couldn't quite make it out. She leaned toward her.

"What was that?"

"_Married_," she whispered.

If it had been anyone else, even anyone else in the room, Belle would have been scandalized, and maybe a little judgmental. Mary Margaret, however, was anything but a home wrecker, and she figured there had to be some sort of story—childhood sweethearts, she had just found out about his wife, it was a green card marriage, etc.

"Is that why you left him?" Belle asked, laying a hand on her arm. "Because you just found out?"

Mary Margaret looked like she wished the answer was yes, but after a few seconds, rocked her head back and forth.

"I thought he and his wife were separated, but it turns out that she was just on Sabbatical. She came back last night. He told me at breakfast."

Belle and Ruby both made sympathetic noises, each reaching forward to squeeze her somewhere on the arm. She gave them a watery smile.

"At least he told you?" Belle offered. "At least he's not trying to have an affair."

"He could have told me before," Mary Margaret whispered to her mug. "Then this never would have started."

"He sounds like a dick," Ruby said, stuffing the bagel in her mouth. "How could he think you would be okay with this?"

"He said that he thought she was leaving him, and that he was sure she was having an affair. And then he said he would tell her about us, but—" She looked up at them. "—I did the right thing, right?"

"Absolutely." Ruby nodded. "He was a liar and a cheat. He doesn't deserve you."

"And," Belle added, because she knew from experience that things like that were rarely as comforting as they were meant to be, "if it turns out that he does tell her, because he does want to be with you, you can always go back to him. There's no shame in being with a man who makes a hard choice."

For the first time, Mary Margaret gave them a real smile. "You think so? It's okay, as long as he makes the choice?"

"Yeah, but can you really be sure of that?" Ruby asked, rolling her eyes. "I mean, he's already lied."

"If he thought they were separated, then he wasn't technically lying," Belle said, taking a sip of coffee. "Besides, if he loves her, then he'll make the right choice."

Mary Margaret's cheeks pinked. "If he loves me." She rubbed the mug with less aggression now, and Belle was glad to have helped her feel better—and it was only partially because this meant that they would leave sooner and she would be able to go to lunch.

"Oh, Belle." Mary Margaret, spirits brightened, snapped her fingers and turned to her. "We've been meaning to ask you, where have you been all week? We've been trying to track you down every day."

Years of practiced composure kept Belle from blushing herself, and she shrugged. "Oh, sorry, I've been having lunch with Dr. Gold."

Both women dropped their bagels. Belle looked up, glancing between the two of them. They were more shocked than she'd been expecting, which made her feel a spark of self-consciousness.

"Please say something," she said.

"Dr. Gold?" Ruby picked her bagel back up, but did not take a bite. "You've been willingly spending time with him?"

"Belle, I know you're very tolerant, but I still find it hard to believe that you could tolerate him for five whole days." Mary Margaret did not look as horrified as Ruby, but she did look to be working hard at her neutral expression.

Belle pressed her lips together. "Actually, it's been seven. And he's not so bad, once you get to know him."

"'Not so bad?'" Ruby repeated, pointing a red talon at her. "Are you saying that you actually like his company?"

"I do! He's so interesting once you get him to stop being petulant. And he knows all the best places in town, I think we've been everywhere. And besides, he's a gentleman. He's paid for every meal." Belle took a bite of her bagel with enough vehemence to suggest it had wronged her.

"Wait." Ruby held up a hand, and even Mary Margaret looked surprised at this. "You've been going on dates with him?"

Belle's eyes widened. "What? No. We've just been having lunch. I mean, they've been nice lunches, and yesterday, we did go to Sakura, and—" She cut herself off with a strangled gasp.

"You went to Sakura?" Mary Margaret asked, while Belle looked like she was trying to do complicated math in her head.

"Oh my god," she said, turning to Ruby as though just seeing her for the first time. "Oh my god, we've been going on dates. Oh my god, what do I do? I need to fix this. I didn't mean for him to think we were—that I was—oh god."

"It's okay." Mary Margaret laid a hand on her arm. "Don't worry. This is an easy fix."

"It's illegal for me to date him!"

Ruby snorted with laughter. "God, Belle. You're, what, forty-five? Not seventeen. It might be frowned on, but it's definitely not illegal."

Belle's nostrils flared. "I am twenty-eight, thank you very much."

Mary Margaret laughed. "Really, Belle. Don't worry. You just have to un-date him."

Belle pursed her lips. "Well, I can't exactly take last week back. It already happened."

"No, you just have to start making it clear that these aren't dates. It'll be easy, because he's probably planning your death anyway, so he won't be disappointed," Ruby said.

"He is not planning my death," she said, but this reminded her of the way he had 'kidnapped' her, and she had to force herself not to grin like a schoolgirl.

"Well, maybe you should go on a date with someone else. What about that guy from the bar? Greg? Gary?"

"Gaston?" Belle wrinkled her nose. "I don't know, Ruby. He called yesterday and left a message, but I don't think I'll call him back."

"Belle, you have to!"

Belle was surprised that it was Mary Margaret to say that—she had thought she'd be able to count on the more sensible woman to back her up in not contacting the oaf from last weekend.

"Why? He was an idiot."

"But did you see his biceps? Date him, and Gold will never get the wrong impression from you again." Ruby tapped a finger against her forehead, as if to show that her brain was working in all the right ways.

This was a convincing argument. Belle knew this, in her mind, and yet she was not convinced by it.

"Fine. I'll call him after lunch."

"Belle!" It was both of them this time, and they each folded their arms, mirroring the other's glare.

Belle was trying to be nonchalant about it, hoping they wouldn't look too far into this excuse, but she had the decency to look sheepish when they pounced.

"Well, I can't just cancel on Dr. Gold. I don't have his number."

"How did you find him last Saturday?" Mary Margaret asked.

Belle hesitated. "I went to his shop?" Two pairs of eyes widened. "But I didn't know it was his, I swear! And I promise today, I'll tell him no more lunches. And then I'll go on a date with Gaston and everything will be back to normal."

"Why don't we go to the shop and tell him you can't make it?" Ruby asked. "You can just tell him that we're kidnapping you."

Belle bit her lip to keep from smiling again, and instead tried to think about this from a logical standpoint. She wished she wasn't so adamant about spending time with Dr. Gold, because she knew he didn't care about her any more than her other professors did, but she couldn't help it. When he wasn't pretending to be an ogre, he was interesting and funny and knew more things than Belle thought possible for any one person to know. Anyone would want to have lunch with him, if only they knew.

"Belle?" Mary Margaret prompted.

"Oh, yes." She had almost forgotten what she'd agreed to, but once she agreed, she knew it was for the best. "That sounds like a good idea."

* * *

Which was how she found herself standing in Dr. Gold's shop, rubbing her toes along her calf to give herself something to do while she waited for him to come out of the back room. She knew he was there, because he had shouted that he was on his way, but he didn't know that it was her, and she made no move to speak.

Ruby and Mary Margaret were waiting outside in Mary Margaret's station wagon, to ensure that Belle went through with the plan—which she most definitely would, unless Dr. Gold mentioned lunch before she had the chance to cancel it, in which case, she was going to have to sneak out the back with him and pretend that she'd been kidnapped for real.

Dr. Gold limped out, clad in his usual impractical three-piece suit. "Belle," he said, and for a second, he looked surprised and genuinely happy to see her. It was gone and replaced by his blank professor look so fast, though, that Belle was sure she'd imagined it.

"Morning, Dr. Gold." It was earlier than usual for lunch, only about eleven, but Ruby had been insistent that they get this over with.

"Morning." He regarded her with his hands folded, as he regarded everyone, and Belle was quiet for as long as she felt was normal and polite, to try and give him time to say something about lunch. He opened his mouth, and she was hopeful, but then all he said was, "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I won't be able to get lunch today."

The look he gave her made her wish she had just stood him up—it was like she was a student who'd raised her hand the say the most stupidly obvious thing in the world.

"You're here to tell me that you can't be here?" He leaned back in his chair, not meeting her eyes in that way he had of not meeting people's eyes, the way that suggested private amusement at her expense.

"I'm being polite. I didn't want you to worry." She folded her arms, refusing to be intimidated by this tiny man behind his desk, doing nothing but moving his eyes around in ways that the world found terrifying.

"How very kind of you, Miss Blue."

She froze, and then tried to pretend that she hadn't by running a hand through her hair. He hadn't called her 'Miss Blue' since Tuesday. What the hell? She looked at his face, trying to find some clue there on how to interpret this situation. What she saw was Dr. Gold, the same one everyone else saw, and though this made her feel hopeless at first, it also reminded her that she knew how to deal with him when no one else did. She was going to do as she always did, and soldier through the conversation until he went back to normal. It had yet to fail her.

"I was also coming to exchange phone numbers." She strode toward the desk, phrasing with care so as to give him no room to argue.

"Phone numbers?" he repeated, leaning back like he was trying to get away from her. "Why?"

After fishing a pen out of her purse, she plucked one of his business cards off of his desk and flipped it over.

"Yes. You know, the number at which we can call each other on the phone." She looked up, giving him a bland smile in response to his suspicious, stunned gaze, and started scribbling her cell number on the back of the card.

"I am aware of the concept, yes. But again—why?"

She pushed the card toward him, staring him down until he settled his fingers over it. "In case one of us needs to cancel, or there's something you need to tell me, and you're not close enough to your computer to send an email. Or, if you get lonely, you can text me."

She didn't know why she had added the last part, and it was obvious from the way that Dr. Gold's throat convulsed and he refused to look up that this had been a mistake. It may have been the truth—that sometimes, he got lonely, and it might help to text her—but she could tell that he did not want to hear it.

"Right." He pulled another business card out and started to write his own number on the back. His handwriting was, to her surprise, much nicer than her own, and he took care to make everything neat and pretty, even though they were just numbers. She found herself drawn to watching his hand move, like she was watching a master craftsman. "I don't text often, but I suppose this will be good practice." He pushed it toward her and she took it.

"Great. I'll add you now."

She pulled out her smart phone, scrolling through until she could add his number. His phone did have a keypad, but he was still much slower at this whole typing thing than she was. It reminded her of her father when he had added texting to his plan to better keep in touch, but she squashed that notion.

"So what's taking you away from me today?" His sudden, quiet voice startled her, but she tried not to jump. She felt a small curl of pleasure in her cheeks at his possessiveness, but that was ridiculous, and that notion was also squashed as soon as it arrived.

"Mary Margaret needed a girls' day, so Ruby and I are taking her out."

"Ah. Her beau's wife is back, I take it?"

She looked up, eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come now, dearie. She's a love-struck teacher. Not exactly subtle. I've known for weeks."

"Did you know they weren't separated?" She wasn't sure how Mary Margaret would feel about them discussing her love life, but she also wanted to know what he knew. It could be important.

"Of course."

Belle's mouth formed a little 'o.' "Why didn't you tell her?"

He looked at her as though she'd just suggested he pelt her with anchovies. "Why would I have any reason to have a conversation about Miss Blanchard's love life with Miss Blanchard?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know, maybe because you know more than she does about it?" She folded her arms.

"I don't converse with people about their personal lives, unless they need my services."

"Sometimes, Dr. Gold, your people skills concern me."

"They've served me this long." He shrugged, and she could tell that he was trying to be nonchalant, but his lips were twitching with amusement.

"I guess I'll just add 'keeping you civil' to my list of duties."

"You overwork yourself, dearie. You should let me buy you lunch sometime." His eyes were narrowed, lips pursed with mirth. "How about this afternoon? My schedule is free."

He started to stand up, so she fled backwards toward the door, brandishing her cell phone at him like this would ward him off.

"I'm too clever for your tricks, beast. You can't coerce me out of ladies' night." She stopped at the door, hand resting on the handle. There was a temptation to agree with him lurking in the back of her mind, but if she glanced out the window, she could see Ruby's car, and this strengthened her resolve.

"'Ladies' night?'" He was now standing behind his desk, both hands resting on his cane. He took one off to gesture toward the windows. "Seems like morning to me."

"Good day, Dr. Gold," she said, trying to make her voice firm. Her attempt only deepened the amusement etched around the jaunty curve of his mouth.

"Good day, Miss Blue."

This time, instead of bothering her, it felt like it sent a fleet of ants crawling up her spine—and then a surge of competitiveness. He was not allowed to have the last word. She was the one standing by the door—it was her job to have the last word, and then run.

"Text me when you get lonely."

She knew, from the second she allowed herself to glance over at him before rushing out the door, that saying 'when' instead of 'if' had been the right move. It wasn't like his expression changed much, but she saw the rapid blinking that usually meant he was pretending to laugh so that he would have time to school his face.

She was in the car before he could retort.

"Oh my god, Belle, what took you so long?" Ruby twisted around in the front seat. "Did you have lunch in there or something?"

"Oh, no, we were just—" No excuse popped into her mind, still a little too giddy. "—exchanging information."

There were loud groans from both parties in the front seat. Ruby turned again, jabbing a red claw toward her.

"Call Gaston. Right now."

Belle wanted to make a face, but Ruby's flashing eyes stopped her. So instead, she forced a smile, because this was an important thing for her to want to do.

"Right. Of course. Calling him back right now."

She took her phone out of her pocket and unlocked the screen. There, having waited for her for the past two minutes, was an unread text. Since the only people who routinely texted her were in the car, she frowned.

"What?" Ruby asked.

"Oh, I just have a text I wasn't expecting." She clicked to open it, and for a second, sat in stunned stillness. Then, her lips started to curve into a smile.

_No._

"What is it?" Ruby fidgeted to try and get a better look at Belle's screen, but she had exited the message by the time she succeeded, not wanting the other woman to see Dr. Gold's name flashing across her screen.

"Nothing, just an old friend."

"Well, whatever." Ruby poked her fingers. "Call Gaston."

"Yeah," Mary Margaret said. "You need to get out there."

Belle forced herself not to heave a sigh, but at least she was smiling now. Gaston would never know that she would rather be returning a text volley, getting her last word in, instead of calling him—and neither would Ruby or Mary Margaret.


	6. Chapter 6

Since he had lost his son six years ago, Raphael Gold had spent every weekend alone in his shop. During the week, he spent all of his free time in his office, making himself availably unavailable, filling his time with mundane things that kept his career thriving. Instead of friends, he had hobbies, and he had spent the past six years trapped in those hobbies and his businesses. When he was bored, he had always been able to pull out a model he was building and delight in the way his old hands could craft something out of nothing, or to look over some accounts to see if he could find a snag to untangle, or intimidate the townsfolk of Storybrooke for sport.

Not today, though. Today, he was filled with such wretched disappointment, he couldn't even bring himself to get out of his chair behind the register to lurk in the back of the shop.

He had had no warning that he would feel this way. He was used to spending time without Belle—she had only spent a couple afternoons in his office that week, and only for about an hour, and she had only spent about five minutes with him yesterday. Most of his day was spent in solitude, building things and fixing things and reading things. Those times didn't make his heart ache, didn't crush him with the thought that he would be lonely and grumpy forever.

The only difference that he could think of today was the fact that Belle did not give him any hint as to when she would be back. Yesterday, he had been fine. Once she was gone, he had contented himself to think that she would be back, that she was somehow as drawn to him as he was to her. She would be back by Sunday afternoon, ready for lunch. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding on to this shred of hope until it was wrenched from his grasp. Lunch time came and went, the shop remained empty, and Gold fell deeper and deeper into a self-induced coma.

When darkness fell, and it came time to close the shop, he carried himself home with the care of one who thought their bones might disintegrate. He had always been a lonely man, and it had been a burden he was willing to bear, but it was like, as soon as his body got a taste of companionship, it couldn't let go.

In order to sleep, he'd had to consume nearly a third of a bottle of Lagavulin, which had caused him to perform a stunt with his knee on the stairs that he was sure he would feel in the morning.

He was not wrong. His knee throbbed so much the next day that he gave his entire lecture sitting down. This seemed to somehow endear him to his students, and he was ambushed by a group of girls after class—wanting to discuss his accent, of all things.

He vowed never to drink on a work night again—at least, not downstairs.

He tried to escape to his office, but his protesting knee and resulting slowness made him an easy target to follow. His only solace came from the fact that it was Monday, and Belle might come by and invite him to lunch again.

"Dr. Gold," one girl said, waiting until he had sat behind his desk to speak. They were all crowded in the doorway, and he was certain that the group's number had been growing. It wasn't even all female anymore. Where the hell was Belle?

"Yes, dearie?"

She flushed, and he realized that she had no idea that his pet name wasn't affectionate.

"You never finished telling us about where you grew up. What was it you said? Wes—go?"

He gritted his teeth. "Lesmahagow." He had said it, but it wasn't true. He had never been to the town—it had been the most complicated name he could think of, and he'd been hoping to deter them with the complexity of his brogue.

"Could you say that again?" a voice in the back piped up.

"I love the way you say things," someone else sighed.

For all of his fearsomeness, Gold could think of nothing terrifying to say at the moment. It appeared that he was too outnumbered—they had attacked him out of his element, and now he was just going to have to succumb to the ambush.

"Lesmahagow."

There was another collective sigh, and Gold was tempted to crawl under his desk, but he couldn't let anyone know that he feared his students when they didn't fear him.

He had no more chances to deter them with complicated Gaelic terms, because their questions soon became generic, just excuses to listen to him talk. He gave them clipped responses, and when his cell phone buzzed because he had a text, he cut himself off mid-sentence and dove for it.

"Dr. Gold?" someone prompted, but he was no longer paying attention.

"I have a meeting," he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the group. "Go to class."

He didn't care that he sounded like a disgruntled parent—he only cared that they left him to open the text. It had to be from Belle—she was, after all, the only person who would ever text him.

He was not disappointed. Her name flashed across his screen, sending his heart into frenzied thumping. Once he read it, however, he wanted to sink into the chair again, until the day was over and he could finish off the rest of his Scotch.

_Can't make it for lunch today or tomorrow, sorry._

The best way to not say anything stupid was to not respond, and so he didn't, but another text came seconds later.

_It appears that there has been some sort of scandal in the biology _  
_department, in which a TA has been arrested for soliciting sex from _  
_minors. The mayor herself is now holding an emerg_

The text cut off, and he wondered if she had stopped typing, if he should run up to her cubicle to make sure she was safe, but the rest of the message appeared seconds later. Phones were a mystery.

_ency session on sensitivity training and sexism. Because _  
_apparently, now none of us can be trusted not to be pimps._

It made him chuckle, despite the fact that he was certain that this training session was the mayor personally attacking him, depriving him of the one thing that made him smile. This was a silly notion, but he was going to hold onto it because being angry at Mayor Mills soothed him.

I do hope that, if you did intend to become a pimp,  
you would consult me for my business expertise.

_Absolutely._

As glad as he was to hear from her after days apart, he couldn't help but feel as though she had just written his death sentence.

* * *

Tuesday dragged like no other day had. Perhaps it was because, for all the other days, there had been hope, but Tuesday was just a day filled with emptiness, and ambushes by the students in his Tuesday/Thursday classes. Both nights had, again, seen him at the Lagavulin, this time lying in bed in his silk robe, feeling like he should be smoking a cigar and lying next to a Playboy bunny. Instead, he read from Cormac McCarthy, finding its grotesqueness to be a suitable distraction.

Wednesday dawned, bleak and grey, and Gold found that he had to convince himself to get out of bed. It had been four days since he had seen Belle, and he could not find any hope within him. He had considered cancelling class, but he was a legend at the university for never having done so, and he wasn't about to ruin that just because he was hung up on seeing his TA.

He limped into class at 9:22, eight minutes to spare, and sat at the desk. While his knee wasn't as bad as it had been on Monday, three nights of drinking himself to sleep hadn't done him any favors. He was determined to give this lecture standing up, so as to regain his ferociousness, but to do that, he would need to gather his strength.

It was known that Dr. Gold started class exactly when class started, and did not tolerate late arrivals. He didn't lock the door, but this was because he preferred to mock any latecomer without mercy, until they either slunk out of class to never return, or cowered out an apology at his feet. The only tolerable excuse for tardiness was visible blood, bruising, or muscle damage—and even then, he would often gesture to his cane and stare. Thus, most people learned by the second week of class that you either arrived on time, or not at all.

The last few stragglers scooted in at 9:29, and Gold stood to begin. This class was on contemporary literature, with a heavy leaning on critical theory, which meant that he spent a good portion of the class standing and lecturing. It was rare that he asked for class discussion, and even more rare that someone volunteered information, since it was known that he did not operate under the idea that there were no stupid questions or wrong answers in regards to interpretation.

He did not use slides nor provide notes or visuals, instead preferring to get up and lecture. The one luxury he did provide his students was his storytelling voice, which was slow enough to give them time to take notes. He would repeat information if asked, but he was rarely asked, and he was certain that some of the quicker note-takers made a good profit selling copies of their notes to those unused to having to pay attention in class.

Had he not given today's lecture thousands of other times, he was certain he wouldn't have gotten through it. It was only the ability to go on autopilot that kept him talking, instead of giving in to the despair creeping along his ribcage.

At 10:02, he paused to give his class time to catch up on notes before he switched topics. In the silence, he could hear the doorknob rattling. He narrowed his eyes, and his already silent class became somehow more silent. They had all seen him go up one side and down the other on people walking in late, and that had been for offenses as small as five minutes. This was thirty-two minutes late. There was bound to be a bloodbath.

"I wonder who that could be." Gold's voice was a soft growl, and he had the tiny grin of a jolly executioner. There were a few nervous laughs from the class, but it remained otherwise silent enough to hear a butterfly land.

Then, the door was flung open, and Gold had no time to register that it was Belle before she was screaming and running over to him. He paled, his first thought being that something was wrong—she was being chased or stalked or followed, and had come to him for protection—but then she flung her arms around his neck.

He was certain that he had never been so still in his life. He was not used to being hugged, and the fact that it was the first thing that Belle had done upon seeing him had given him sensory overload. Also, she was still screaming, and he thought he might have been going deaf.

"Oh my god, Dr. Gold, you'll never guess what happened!" Her voice was about ten times more high-pitched than usual, and he winced. Now that his body was done pretending it didn't work, however, his knee decided that it did not like having another person using it for support, and he stumbled backwards, managing to catch himself on his cane.

"Do tell," he said, teeth gritted against the pain. He wasn't too upset, though, because Belle was here, interrupting his class just to hug him. It made up for decades without lunch.

She jumped back, clasping her hands in front of her. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot about your knee. Should I get you a chair?"

"I can move around," he said, stung at the way she treated him like he belonged in a home. "I'm not an invalid."

"I didn't mean that and you know it. I almost knocked you over! I feel bad." She folded her arms.

"I can hit you with my cane. Would that make you feel better?"

She pursed her lips, hands on her hips, and he had the urge to sweep her up and twirl her. He had missed her so much more than he'd even realized.

"Would you get on with it? You're interrupting my class." He gestured out to the room, filled now with wide-eyed students, gawking in amazement.

"Oh, yes, right." She turned to the class and waved. "So, I was sitting in my office and I got this email from the _Puckerbrush Review_."

She paused, watching him. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, so after a few seconds, he pressed his lips together.

"Okay. And?"

She looked out at the class, expectant, and one girl raised her hand to ask what the _Puckerbrush Review_ was. This seemed to be what Belle had been waiting for, and she clasped her hands together.

"It's a literary magazine run by the University of Maine's main campus, dedicated to publishing the best in their field."

"So, they emailed you?" Gold prompted, folding his hands over his cane.

"Yes, and they're going to publish me!" She squealed, looking like she was about to throw her arms around him again, until she glanced at his cane and settled for jumping up and down while the class gasped and clapped.

He felt a surge of pride—his student, his Belle, was getting published, maybe even for her work arguing against him. He almost smiled, but since he was in class, he didn't, and he knew she would understand.

"Did you submit part of your dissertation? Your writing sample that got you in?"

It was like he'd thrown water on her. She settled down, edging away and chewing her lip. He drew his brows together.

"Actually, I won for a creative work."

As much as he loved literature, Gold held a certain amount of disdain for writers, and he felt his face automatically curling into a grimace before he could stop it. The class renewed their clapping, but Belle continued to watch him and chew her lip.

"It's not poetry, is it?"

"Oh, no, it's a short story." She smiled again, and he knew he would never feel disdain for any creative endeavor she undertook.

"Thank god. I hate poets." His lip twitched in a smile, and she hopped again.

"No, you don't. You love Keats."

His chest filled up with air at the fact that she knew this, could so readily trot out this fact. "Well, Keats has something no modern poet has."

"Oh? And what's that? A way with words? A sense of romance? An unquenchable need to find beauty and truth?" She exchanged a conspiratorial look with his entire class, and he felt a surge of jealousy.

"He's dead."

While the rest of his class looked cowed, as usual, at his sense of humor, Belle let out a bark of laughter.

"All right, beast, you've made your point. You hate everyone. But I won't let you pretend not to be happy for me, because I know you are, and I have more to tell you later, so meet me at Granny's at noon."

Her last statement sent such a wave of relief through him, he thought he might fall over. Instead, he wrinkled his nose, because he was Raphael Gold, and he did not just agree to things when there were people present. His name may as well have been 'Difficult Gold.'

"Can't you just go to my office and tell me after class?"

"No, because I've got two days' worth of work to catch up on because of that stupid sex seminar. But hey, I guess it was worth it, because now I know all the dangers of selling minors for sex." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I've got to get going. I'll see you in a few hours."

He was about to bid her goodbye, already preparing ways to restore order to his now-chuckling class, and then she leaned forward to peck him on the cheek, and he was certain that his heart had exploded. He stood stock still, unable to form any words as she chirped out another farewell and flitted out of the room.

The catcall from the back of the room jarred him out of his stupor, and the glare he gave his class would have been effective in silencing them for the rest of their lives.


	7. Chapter 7

Belle had been dwelling on the fact that she had kissed Dr. Gold's cheek for the past two hours, and was still dwelling on it while she waited for him at the bar in Granny's diner, trying to read a frayed copy of _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_. Granny Lucas had given her a free chocolate milkshake in congratulations, and she sipped at it with ever-growing dread of the moment that Dr. Gold walked in.

She had kissed him. In his classroom. With her lips. She had put her lips on the side of Dr. Gold's face, in front of people. She had even been wearing lipstick—what if there was now a lip print on his face that he hadn't noticed, and he had been walking around all morning with a visual reminder that she had violated him with her mouth? She wanted to die.

"You know, love, if you're not going to read, there are other things you could be doing to occupy your time."

Belle looked up at the unfamiliar voice to see the most attractive person she had ever seen in the entire state of Maine. She had opened her mouth to respond, when he continued with, "What I'm saying is that I think we should have sex," and winked.

For a second, Belle sat there, stunned. The stranger had a lopsided grin situated in his dark stubble, and he plopped himself on the stool next to her like they were old friends.

"I beg your pardon?" she managed, feeling a bit like this was all a dream.

Instead of apologizing, he offered his hand. "Killian Jones. It's a pleasure to meet you…?"

"Belle," she said, shaking his hand without thinking. When she realized she was touching the person who had walked up and propositioned her, she yanked her hand away like his was poisoned.

"Ah, Belle. What a lovely name. It suits you well. Killian doesn't suit me at all, but most people just call me Hook."

Belle was curious in spite of herself. "Hook? Like the captain?"

"The very same." He smiled, and she had the fleeting thought that maybe he wasn't so bad.

"Because you're a codfish?"

His laugh was deep and baritone, and even when it was only a small chuckle, it felt like it filled the room.

"No, and I'd rather not embarrass myself in front of someone as lovely as you by sharing the story quite yet."

"Tell me something else instead, then." She marked her place and closed her book, folding her arms. "Does your opening line usually work?"

His grin grew, and it was like his presence grew with it. By all rights, he should have looked shadowy and slight—black shirt, dark jeans, dark hair—but it was like he commanded the space around him, bending it to highlight his own existence by the way it contained him.

"Well, it got you to talk to me, didn't it?"

At this, she had to chuckle, ducking her head so that she didn't have to meet his eyes. Perhaps he wasn't so bad. He was certainly more clever in their minute of conversation than Gaston had been in hours of conversation last Saturday—and he cared that they were having one, which was a vast improvement. She'd gotten the impression from Gaston that he wouldn't mind too much if she were mute.

"Well, if that was your aim, then I suppose you've hit your mark."

"I've always been an excellent marksman."

He was charming, she would allow him that. Even Granny, who was nigh unflappable, looked flushed by his smile when he beckoned her over so that he could order himself a vanilla milkshake. She didn't even balk when he leaned forward, looking conspiratorial, and asked her to add a dash of vodka.

"Hope you don't mind." He leaned back, propping his feet on the railing below. "I've taken the liberty of joining you."

She closed her book, marking her place with a paperclip, and turned toward him. "I don't mind at all, but I should warn you that I'm meeting someone in a few minutes."

"Well, then you'll just have to give me your phone number, won't you?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "What if it's my boyfriend that I'm meeting?"

He shrugged. "I see no ring on your finger. I'm not worried."

"Well, just because we're not engaged, it doesn't mean—"

He cut her off with a raised finger, much in the way Dr. Gold often did. "If you'd wanted to deter me by having a boyfriend, you'd have said you were meeting your boyfriend. Even if that's what you're doing—which I doubt you are—you didn't feel it was necessary to let me know."

Belle couldn't argue with that, and she found herself more flattered by his logical conclusion than the fact that he was so determined to hit on her. She pursed her lips to keep them from spreading.

"All right, you caught me. I don't have boyfriend." Planning a second date with Gaston hardly counted. "But you can't have my number until you answer one question."

He rubbed his hands together, looking like a gleeful pirate about to steal treasure. "Ooh, I love a good bargain. What's your question, then?"

"Well, both of your hands seem to be in working order." She settled so that she was facing him, tucking one ankle behind the other.

"That they are. Did you want to find out already?"

She was certain that she should have been uncomfortable with the way he wiggled his eyebrows at her, but it just seemed like such a reasonable gesture coming from him that she found she couldn't mind it. Still, she pursed her lips like a chiding schoolteacher, choosing to ignore him.

"Why 'Hook?'"

He sighed, and stretched like a contented cat. "Well, love, it seems you've got me trapped between a rock and a hard place."

"Oh?" She took a sip of her milkshake, perhaps puckering her lips a little more than necessary, taking note of the way that he actually kept his eyes on hers instead of straying to her mouth.

"Either I lose my dignity, or I lose your phone number."

She watched him stroke the stubble on his chin, biting her lip to keep from grinning like a silly schoolgirl being approached by an older boy for the first time.

"And your verdict?" She couldn't help it—she twirled a curl of her hair around her finger.

"My dignity seems a small price to pay to hear your voice again."

Her hair tightened around her finger, but she tried to be cool by just ducking her head in acceptance of his answer. Belle had always been pretty—her father used to say she was the spitting image of her mother—and she was used to being hit on, but she was also used to being disgusted by her suitors, or accidentally turning them off with her bookishness. Since she valued a it so highly, it was hard to understand how so few men could appreciate a good wit.

"Very well. Once upon a time, I was suffering a traumatic breakup." He paused, waiting for her to nod and hardly looking as though said breakup had traumatized him. "It happened the morning after Halloween, for which I had dressed as a pirate, and I spent the rest of the week in a bit of a slump. So, the next weekend, my friends all decided it was time I get out and get over her. At our first bar, we were thrown out, because I started yelling. At the second bar, we knew the bartender, and he gave us free shots. Many free shots. So many free shots, that I really don't remember anything else. And there you have it."

He was still grinning, but Belle pressed her lips together and folded her arms.

"For some reason, I feel as though you are leaving out key details—for instance, how any of this relates to you being called 'Hook.'"

He put on a big show of sighing, but he didn't look at all unhappy about her assessment. "It seems you cannot be fooled. All right, if you must know, after the third or so shot, I apparently went round the room telling everyone that I was Captain Hook. This followed me for so long that there were still girls passing me in the street weeks later and calling me that. The name stuck." He shrugged.

She snorted with laughter, and he jumped.

"Did you just snort? Like a pig?"

"It's not nice to call the woman giving you her phone number a pig," she retorted, reaching into her purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. She came up with a crumpled grocery receipt, and scrawled her number on it. It was much less formal than when she'd exchanged information with Dr. Gold, and she felt a small twinge of guilt that she was giving it out again so soon. She pushed that thought down, though, because he was her professor and he hated everyone and it was silly.

"Well, here you—are you okay?"

While she'd been looking down, his face had darkened, all traces of the easy smiles and devil-may-care laughs gone. He was staring at a point over her shoulder, and she was afraid that she would see some woman with perky breasts and legs for miles stalking toward him if she turned around.

"Fine, love," he said, but he looked distracted. "An old crocodile just walked in."

She knew it was presumptuous of her, but she couldn't help that her heart went out to him for looking so pained, and so she took his hand and squeezed. When she had his flickering attention, she pressed her number into his palm, and then turned to see what the commotion was about.

She saw no woman, but she did see Dr. Gold standing at the hostess' stand, looking for her. It didn't matter that she'd spent her time waiting for him being hit on by an attractive, clever, attentive man—she could not possibly have been this happy before he walked in. He looked the same as usual, like someone had chiseled his face from the loneliest, most weathered stone they could find.

It was obvious that he could see her—he was looking right at her—but when she waved, he made no motion to indicate that he had noticed. Frowning, she waved again, and then squinted to get a good look at his face. He was not looking at her, as she'd thought—rather, he was looking at a point behind her. Pressing her lips together, she turned around. Hook and Dr. Gold were locked in a stare charged with so much hate, Belle was tempted to just slink away. Instead, she waved a hand between them.

Both men blinked, and Belle turned to watch Dr. Gold instead of Hook. She knew when he noticed her, because he paled, and she felt her cheeks starting to flame. He was remembering the kiss—he was totally remembering the kiss and how much he hated her.

Forgetting, for a moment, that there was some sort of unexplained hatred between the two men surrounding her, she watched Dr. Gold approach with growing trepidation. His steps were slow and even, cane clunking out a dull rhythm. It was as if the whole diner had hushed to watch him make his way toward the counter—but that would have been silly, because there was no reason for all of the diner patrons to care about some cranky old professor.

She opened her mouth to greet him when he reached her, but he continued past her stool as though he hadn't seen her, stopping instead in front of Hook. Then, he shifted toward her, and Belle had the oddest sensation that he was trying to put himself between her and the other man, like he was trying to protect her.

"Jones."

It was the same voice he used to threaten students, but a thousand times silkier, a thousand times more dangerous. Belle felt a shiver race down her spine, and she wasn't quite sure what it was from.

"Gold."

It was like watching two lions fight for dominance. Belle was almost afraid to get in the way, but after looking at Hook's hardened face, and seeing the way that Gold's fingers drummed against his cane—waiting to break something with it—she figured that it was her duty. After all, she had promised Gold that she would work on his people skills.

She couldn't think of anything to say, but she wasn't sure they'd hear her even if she could. Instead, she did the first thing she could think of—closed her arm around Dr. Gold's wrist. It was like she'd just popped a balloon in his ear, and he stumbled a bit before catching himself on his cane. There was still something feline about the way he turned toward her, and she almost expected him to flatten himself on the ground in preparation for pouncing and ripping her throat out.

"Yes, Miss Blue?"

His tone wasn't any less silky, any less dangerous, but she had never been afraid of him before and she wasn't about to start now. This was her day—something she'd forgotten in all of the hubbub—and he was going to support her if it killed him. Though he was looking at her, he wasn't meeting her eyes, so she placed her free hand on his cheek and pointed his face toward hers.

"I thought we were having lunch, Dr. Gold? So that I can tell you my news?"

It was like watching him piece together a puzzle—like he was trying to remember where her edges fit with the edges of his life, and then mesh them together. She knew now that any anger she'd seen before was nothing compared to this anger, this emotion that was like a transformation.

"Not here," he said, when he had managed to rest his gaze on her own.

"What?" That wasn't what she'd been expecting.

"This is no place for a celebration." He swept away from her, picking up her book and purse as though it was something he did every day, and she spluttered after him.

"Wait a minute, this is my celebration! I should be able to—" But there was no use in arguing, because he was making his way back to the door with all of her things. She sighed and turned to Granny, who was staring off after him with pursed lips. She must have heard his quip.

"Could you put that in a to-go cup, please?" she asked, chewing her lip. She wished she could tip the woman, but she was lacking any of her personal items, including her wallet.

Without speaking, Granny grabbed her cup and stomped away. Belle felt terrible, and this feeling only increased when she turned to find Hook staring at her.

"I am so sorry," she said, wishing she had something to hide behind—her book, her milkshake, a wall.

"No worries, love. I had no idea you liked antiques."

Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into an indignant scowl. "That is my professor, and I've just been published, and we are celebrating. So, if you'll excuse me." She hopped off the stool, taking much less care with her skirts and her shoes than usual, and then smoothed herself out. Granny handed her the milkshake, and she took it with a whispered apology, thanks, and promise to be back that night with Ruby and Mary Margaret.

When she was starting to leave, sure now that Hook was disgusted with her—and finding that she didn't actually care as much about that as she probably ought to—she felt a rough hand on her wrist.

"Sorry, love," he said when she'd turned to face him. "Old habits, eh?"

"Right." She nodded, though she wasn't sure to which habit he was referring—was it customary for him to glare at middle-aged cripples?

"Can I still call you?" He raised the receipt with her number, dangling it over the counter like he held its life in its hands. Closer inspection revealed that he was dangling over a puddle of condensation from her milkshake, as though he was going to make it walk the plank.

"If you promise to be polite."

He pressed a hand to his heart. "You have my word."

* * *

Dr. Gold was not happy when she exited the diner, and he made his displeasure known with his deafening silence during the car ride. Belle was almost afraid to sip her milkshake, not wanting the abrupt slurps to jar him out of his focused anger. She studied his profile while he drove, waiting for some indication of his thoughts, and assumed she would have to stalk him all afternoon to get him to talk to her. She wasn't watching out the window, but she was certain that he was taking her back to campus. He didn't seem to want to spend any more time in her company—of course, she was going to force it on him no matter where they were, but he didn't need to know that.

When the car eased to a stop, Belle expected to see the towering red brick of UMS. It was a testament to how intently she'd been watching Dr. Gold's face that she didn't realize that nothing was familiar. She turned to see where they had ended up, and she almost choked on her straw.

They were parked at the edge of the downtown area, in what seemed to be a parking lot designed to shield murderers from wayward eyes. Though Gold started to move around, Belle sank back further in her chair. He was out of the car before he realized that she hadn't moved, and, gripping his cane, he poked his head in.

"Belle, what are you doing?"

She noted that he was back to using her first name, which meant that he must not be mad anymore. In fact, he no longer looked mad—rather, he looked a bit like a cat playing with a mouse it had just trapped. This gave Belle courage—or, at least, it gave her defiance.

"Your seatbelt is stuck. Could you get it for me?" She sucked down the last of her milkshake—because, judging by the shadiness of the lighting and the conveniently placed pillars, this could have been her last one ever—and then raised her arm to give him access to the button.

"Cadillac seatbelts don't break," he said, but he started to stretch in anyway. "I think this is a user-problem."

"Insulting a lady on her day of celebration isn't very nice, Dr. Gold."

"Perhaps the lady should learn how to use a car."

She was expecting to feel the brush of his hand when he released the seatbelt. It was inevitable, since she had only moved her arm out of the way, not her whole body. She did not, however, expect to feel heat rush to her cheeks, or a violent tingling on her hip where his fingers touched, and she jerked out of his way. He paused, hands hovering over the center console while he looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

"Are you all right, dearie?"

"You shocked me," she said, trying to sound accusatory. In truth, she knew that he hadn't—and that he would have known if he had—but she was going to stick to this lie like her life depended on it.

"I shocked you."

Belle knew that, when he resorted to repetition, it always meant that he thought whatever was being said was stupid enough that he didn't need to make fun of it. "Yes." Her embarrassment had her forgetting her earlier fear, and she scooted out of the car as soon as she was free. "Static electricity is a problem among young people these days." What was she even saying? She needed to shove the milkshake back into her mouth, but it was still in the cup holder.

"Is it." He was making his way around the car, still cat-like. "Must be why I didn't feel anything."

Sometimes, when they walked, he would put his hand on the small of her back and guide her. Though she had first wanted to balk at this—she could walk on her own, thank-you-very-much—she soon realized that it was not meant to be a show of dominance. Instead, it was his way of being affectionate, of doing the gentlemanly thing, and making sure his pupil knew that he was behind her in case she faltered.

He did not do that today. He didn't walk in front of her, but there was enough of a shift in his stance that made it obvious that he was leading, and she was following. She said nothing, deciding that he was doing this because he was making sure the coast was clear of all danger as they walked. To do her part in the scouting, she kept her gaze in constant circuit of her surroundings until they were well past the parking garage.

She was just relaxing into a normal walk when Gold stopped, and she bumped into him. He made no quip about her clumsiness, which she thought was odd until he gestured for her to follow him into what looked like a cement nook between buildings. Was he going to be the one to murder her?

"Where are we?" she asked, ducking away from a low-hanging decorative vine.

He didn't answer, just beckoned her forward. She stepped closer, expecting him to now put his hand on her back, but he seemed determined not to touch her.

She only had a second to feel disappointed about this, before she realized that they had stepped into a restaurant. It did not have the soft lighting or elegant symmetry of Sakura, but it was just as lovely, fulfilling every notion that Belle might have had about a Mediterranean countryside. The walls were faded terracotta, and they tapered off in every direction, leaving only one room of diners visible from the entrance. All along the walls were strips of decorated tiles, hand-painted in bright yellows, oranges, and reds, but done with such craftsmanship that Belle hardly noticed how bright it was. The floor was wood, scuffed by foot-traffic and polished over to give it a cozy-kitchen feel. The waiters and waitresses were all in tailored suits, and all of the waitresses had a hibiscus pinned to the sides of their ponytails.

"Where are we?" Belle had to raise her voice to be heard over all of the chatter. She had the feeling that, even if it had been empty, it wouldn't have been silent.

"_Castillo de Santa Maria_."

The Spanish that rolled off his tongue was tinged with his brogue, and Belle felt it more than heard it. It went straight to her knees, like his voice was trying to sweep her off her feet. As she tried not to consider the implications of this, the trilling of classical Spanish guitar filled the room.

"Oh," was all she could manage. Was this restaurant as expensive as Sakura? It didn't look it, but, knowing Dr. Gold, he wouldn't take her to a cheaper restaurant when a celebration was in order.

His fingertips came to rest on the small of her back, and he leaned close to be heard above the din. "You like Spanish food, don't you?"

"Yes." She hoped that she sounded less breathless than she felt. When had she become so concerned with where his fingers were on her back? Did this happen in their four-day absence?

She wasn't sure whether he intended to speak again, but soon both of their attentions were drawn to a huddle of people in a corner. A petite woman with a yellow hibiscus in her thick, black curls broke away, looking a bit like she had drawn the short straw. By the time she got over to them, though, she was all smiles and winking and curves.

"_Bienvenido_, !"

Belle had been to places where people spoke Spanish, and had been friends with enough people who were Hispanic to know that this girl's accent was terrible. She had a bit of Spain about her, but Belle thought that might have had more to do with the way she wore her makeup, accentuating her almond eyes and making her look dark and mysterious. Her eyeliner was smudged in the corners, probably from working all morning, and some of the red paint on her nails was chipped.

"Are you ready to seat us?" Dr. Gold asked, and Belle couldn't find it within her to chide him for his rudeness. Under normal circumstances, she would have, and she wouldn't have noticed the fact that the buttons on the girl's top were undone to her vest, displaying an un-ladylike amount of cleavage—today, however, it was the only way she could find to distract herself from whatever it was that boiled in her chest, in her throat, in her stomach when the hostess twitched her hips at Dr. Gold.

"We have our best table free for you, Mr. Gold, if you'll follow me this way."

She grabbed two, swishing her hips toward the back of the restaurant, and it was only when Belle continued to feel the comforting weight of Dr. Gold's hand on her back that she realized that the woman had already known who he was. That was weird.

"Dr. Gold, why does everyone know you?"

"I've lived here a long time."

She wasn't sure that was an accurate reason, but Storybrooke was small, so she accepted it for the time being. Hip-Swisher led them to a table tucked into a corner, much like the one they'd been given at Sakura. This one had a vase with a single marigold, and an unlit candle. The table was bathed in sunshine, and in clear view of a large oak tree covered in Spanish moss.

Dr. Gold pulled her chair out for her, and then it wasn't until he turned to his own chair that they both realized that it was on the same side of the table. It was a small table, but two people could easily have sat across from each other. Instead, the chairs were wedged closer together, giving both seats a perfect view of the man playing Spanish guitar. After a second's hesitation, Dr. Gold sat himself in the other chair, putting his cane between them.

"Your server will be right with you," the hostess said, and Belle was certain that her hip-swishing was aimed directly at Dr. Gold. She endeavored to ignore her sauntering away by thrusting her nose into the menu.

As suspected, the restaurant was so far out of her price range, it made her wallet hurt. It was like Dr. Gold was reading her thoughts, because when she looked up at him to protest, he was already giving her the death stare he gave to students who dared argue a grade. She kept her mouth shut, and when next she looked at him, he was back to his normal level of scariness.

"See anything you like on the drink menu?" he asked, setting his menu down to watch her.

"Drink? It's noon."

He snorted. "That didn't stop you when we got free champagne. Besides, as someone keeps reminding me, it's a special occasion."

It wasn't like she could argue with her own words, so she let out huffing breath and turned her attention back to the menu. "Well, fine. Is there anything you think looks good?" When they went out, they got drinks to share—a bottle of champagne, a pot of tea—and all of the drinks here seemed to be in shareable portions. There was a full bar, but the house specials were wine, and plenty of them were sold by the bottle. The sangria was by the pitcher.

"Belle, this is your celebration, not mine. Pick whatever you'd like, and if you even so much as glance at the price, I will fail two students."

She was about to respond to his threat when she realized what it was, and yelped.

"That's right, dearie," he said, lips twitching in mirth. "The fate of two random students is held in your dainty little hands."

She narrowed her eyes. "Fine, but since I'm not looking at the prices, you have to be a little more lenient with two students that you know are trying, but just not getting it."

Instead of annoying him like she'd hoped it might, her response seemed to delight him more. She told herself that his expression was making her heart race with fear, even though she'd never really been afraid of him.

"You have my word." He pressed a hand to his heart. "Now, what would you like?"

She turned her attention to the menu, poking her tongue out between her teeth in thought. "Well, the sangria looks good, but you only like wine made from the tears of children, right?"

"If you mean red wine, then yes, that is my preference. But as long as you don't pick grape juice, I'll toast to you with your beverage of choice."

She peeked up at him, and they shared a tiny smile. It was a gesture so small, but so intimate, that Belle felt her cheeks flushing. She hastened to speak.

"Well, since you like red wine, and I like sangria, let's get the red sangria."

He nodded his assent, and when their waitress came—another petite, swishing woman that Belle had to pretend that she didn't want to stab a little bit—ordered a pitcher of that as well as the tapas sampler. A few minutes later, she came back with a tray full of fruit, bottles, a glass pitcher of ice, and two wine glasses garnished with pineapple, and then proceeded to make the sangria in front of them. Belle was delighted, having not realized that it would be made tableside, and by the time she had a glass in her hand, Dr. Gold was watching her, the corners of his mouth softened as he did. When her eyes met his, he cleared his throat and leaned back, hand clutching his wine glass.

"So, Miss Blue." He took a sip, watching her.

"Hmm?" She was going to have to figure out this pattern of name-use—did 'Miss Blue' mean that they were talking business? Was he her professor when he used her surname?

"How do you know Killian Jones?"

She took a sip of sangria to hide her pursed lips. Maybe it just meant that he was about to say something unpleasant.

"I don't. We just met a few minutes before you got there." She didn't know if he'd seen the number-exchange, but she wasn't going to mention it. Ever.

"I see." His voice was like a winter breeze—soft enough when one has no direct contact, but cold enough to sting if met head-on.

Dr. Gold's face was unreadable, and Belle wasn't sure what sort of crisis she was going to need to avert. Neither man was forthcoming with information about their animosity, and she was sure that, if left to his own devices, Gold would sit and stare and brood until everyone in the restaurant was cowering behind him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"Are you jealous, Dr. Gold?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes while she took a sip of wine.

She didn't expect him to answer, but she did expect to jar him out of his stupor, and she was not disappointed. He blinked, and then pursed his lips at her, taking a gulp from his own glass.

"Hardly."

"Well, it's not like we spent hours chatting and sharing life stories. We'll probably never even see each other again. So you can stop fussing."

"Probably?" He frowned. "What do you mean, 'probably?'"

"Ugh, nothing. Look, here comes our—" The rest of the words died in her throat. She watched their waitress—carrying a tray loaded with their appetizers—dodge not one, but two chairs backing out, only to be hit by a waiter in reverse, mere feet from their table. Belle let out a throaty screech of surprise, the sound swallowed by the waitress' own scream as she and the tray toppled forward. At the same time that the waiter lunged to save the waitress, Belle lunged sideways for Dr. Gold to avoid the shattering ceramic headed straight for them. His hand was closer to her than it should have been, and, as she closed her fingers around his palm, she wondered if he'd reached for her, too.

The waiter managed to keep their waitress from falling to her doom, and she was letting go a steady stream of apologies to them, but Belle was certain that she and Dr. Gold were both preoccupied by the same thing. His hand flexed under hers, and she loosened her vice grip on him. She was torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to pretend that the whole thing never happened, but then Dr. Gold twisted his hand until they were equal parts holding each other, instead of Belle just clinging to him.

Despite all the noise, the crowd of people gathering to help clean up and assure them that they would be brought a speedy replacement, Dr. Gold tilted his head toward her, indicating he wanted to speak. She leaned in to show that she was listening.

"You had something to tell me," he said, voice low. "What was it?"

"Well, I was planning on letting you have at least two glasses of wine before telling you." She almost squeezed his hand, but stopped herself just in time. It was best to just pretend that their hands were part of the scenery—separate from their minds and bodies, holding each other of their own accord.

"I think now will work just fine." He sounded a little ragged, a little breathless, and Belle could feel her ears heating.

"Well, some poet was supposed to be giving a reading next Thursday—you know, they have that series in the ballrooms?" He nodded. "Anyway, the poet cancelled, so they're giving it to me as a congratulations for winning."

She was certain that the smile he gave her was genuine, the most real smile she'd ever seen on his face. She also could have sworn that he looked proud, but she wasn't sure that this was an emotion she could associate with Dr. Gold quite yet, so she settled for him being pleased.

"Belle, that's fantastic. Why did you want me to be drunk?"

"Because I wanted to invite you." It was strange, inviting someone to come see her show off, but she wanted more than anything for Dr. Gold to be there to share the moment with her.

He looked taken aback. "You did?" He looked away, like he was trying to do math in his head, and when he looked back, he still looked baffled. "Why?"

If there was ever a moment to squeeze his hand, it was now—if that wasn't reason enough for her to want him there, she didn't know what was. She also wasn't sure what else to say.

"Because—well—I consider us to be good friends, don't you?"

"Don't you have other friends that you want to go?"

His confusion made no sense. She was being as clear as she could be. "I can invite more than one friend, you know. You can even invite someone. Bring a date, if you want."

She couldn't help that she bit her lip, or fluttered her lashes. It was a natural reaction to saying something like that, not because she wanted to dissuade Dr. Gold from agreeing to bring a date, obviously.

He snorted, though there was no amusement to the sound. "No, I don't think I'll bring a date, but I will be there."

"Good. I'm glad." This time, she didn't stop herself from squeezing his hand.

* * *

After that, they found new and discreet ways of touching. She never tried to hold his hand, and he never tried to hold hers, but that wasn't the only way to show affection. When they walked, his hand sat heavier on her back, and if a seating host was male, his hand would slide over until his fingers curled over her hip. If he was sitting at his desk, grading, she would come up behind him and rest her hand on his shoulder, leaning over until their cheeks could have touched. If she was the one working, his hand would go between her shoulder blades, and he would sometimes lay his hand over her writing one to still it, so that he could read whatever note she was writing.

Nights were reserved for Ruby and Mary Margaret, because Mary Margaret was still upset about David, and Belle was unwilling to look unavailable at all. She spent as much time as possible in Dr. Gold's company, but by being free every time Ruby beckoned, she was certain that this fact was hidden. Even though their time spent together was innocent, she knew that Ruby would misinterpret it.

Thursday was her second date with Gaston, but it wasn't quite a date because his friends Billy and Victor were there, as were Ruby and Mary Margaret. Really, it was an excuse to get Mary Margaret drunk enough to forget that she was sad, and Belle offered to be the designated driver. Though her wits were about her, Gaston still managed to corner her without her knowledge, at which point he leaned in close enough to kiss her, and asked her to go out with him again on Saturday. She'd agreed, if only to get him away from her face, and then felt an overwhelming sense of guilt that she refused to acknowledge.

Hook had also been texting her—another fact to file away in her unacknowledged guilt folder—and Belle was grateful for the distraction. They had clever conversations with clever quips, and though there was always an undercurrent of flirtation, he never asked her on a date. He was the one she ended up telling about Gaston. He advised her never to have sex with him, and she agreed.

She spent most of Friday curled up in Dr. Gold's office, catching up on some reading for one of her classes. Saturday, she wandered his shop and allowed him to put her to work dusting until she had to leave and get ready for her date. It wasn't the best date she'd ever had, but it wasn't the worst, and when Gaston walked her up to her door, she didn't balk when he kissed her. This was good for her, she reminded herself. She'd always dated people like Gaston—it was safe and normal to be with him. Like the date, his kiss wasn't the worst, and she could feel his tongue pressing against the back of his lips, so she ended it while it was still chaste. Before he let her go inside, he told her he wanted to see her again, that he was glad that she was his.

She didn't know when she had become his, but she agreed to see him again. Once alone, thinking it over, she recoiled at his self-righteous possession of her, but there was nothing she could do now. They had dinner again on Sunday, after she had lunch with Dr. Gold, and then again on Monday.

Tuesday, she got news that was even worse than finding out that she belonged to Gaston, and she sighed her way into Dr. Gold's office wearing her sad jeans and sad hoodie. She hadn't had to drag this outfit—threadbare grey jeans and a navy sweatshirt from American—out of her closet since she was rejected by Harvard for not being able to pay their doctorate tuition. Under most circumstances, she was optimistic, but there were days when she felt the need to wallow in her own misery like anybody else, and today was one of those days.

When she shuffled into Dr. Gold's office, he was bent over his desk with his tweezers and metal pieces again. As soon as he saw her, however, he stood up and dragged the other chair over to his side of the desk. This cheered her up a little, because it had been her plan from the start, and she curled up next to him, legs drawn to her chest. The chairs were close enough that, when he leaned back from his work, he could rest his elbows on her knees. When he did, she curled closer to him.

"What's wrong?" He would only look at her out of his periphery. Maybe sad women intimidated him.

"It's my father." She sighed, slumping down in the chair, while he knitted his eyebrows together.

"Is he okay?"

She hadn't told him anything about her family, and he hadn't told her about his—except that his wife was an ex-wife—so he had no way of knowing that her father was in fine health, if a bit of a sot.

"He's fine. He just—he's not coming on Thursday."

It had taken her father all week to figure this out, wavering between 'definitely going to be there' and 'not sure that he can swing it,' until he called this morning to inform her that it was a definite negative.

"Why not?"

"He can't afford it at such short notice." When he'd said that over the phone, she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from saying that, maybe, if he'd set aside his booze money for a week, he could have easily bought a plane ticket.

"Not even for such a special occasion?" Though he was still watching his desk instead of her, she could see that, now, it was because he was thinking, not because he was afraid to meet her eyes.

"It's hard. He's a florist, so unless he can get someone to watch the shop, he can't exactly take off much work. And he didn't have the notice to put money aside, or make arrangements, so it makes sense." Of course it made sense, and she knew that this would have been her father's excuse, too.

"I see."

"It's fine," she assured him, as though she hadn't gotten dressed with the specific intention of being sad. "Really. I didn't expect him to come."

All he did was grunt, though, and then slide his arm off her legs to stand up.

"Come on. I'm hungry."

He held his hand out to help her up, and she took it, but it didn't make her feel much better.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING AHLGKJFG YOU ARE ALL AMAZING AND SUPPORTIVE ILY333333333_

* * *

Gold didn't know why he was doing it. He never did anything for anyone else, without definite knowledge that he would gain something in return. This time, however, the only thing he would get in return was Belle's happiness—and that wasn't even a sure thing. He just assumed—hoped—prayed—that he would, and somehow, that alone propelled him forward.

It was an easy enough thing to do. He knew her full name, after all, and so it was simple to pull her file and get the information he wanted. Dr. Hopper—a professor that he might have called his friend, if the circumstances ever arose for him to name friends—had found him rifling through the records and tried to dissuade him, so he'd had to tell him what he was doing against his better judgment. He couldn't deny, though, that Dr. Hopper's approval eased his mind.

Information acquired, he was now sitting in front of his computer, one hand resting on the office phone in the corner. He had called strangers thousands of times for thousands of business reasons, but this particular stranger was making him more nervous than he'd like to admit. He considered begging Dr. Hopper to do it for him, but the thought of such a display of weakness drove him forward, and he soon dialed the number.

It rang three times, and then, "Game of Thorns, Moe speaking, how can I help you?"

Had he dialed the wrong number? What was Game of Thorns? He racked his brain for a possible solution, while the man on the other end repeated 'hello?' a few times.

He supposed that 'Game of Thorns' could have been a flower shop. Belle had said that her father was a florist, right?

"Yes, hello. I'd like to speak to Mr. Blue, if he's available."

"Speaking. What can I do for you, sir?"

He must have grabbed the work number instead of a house number. Perhaps Belle had given the work number for her emergency contact? If she had, that seemed unsafe. It meant she could only have an emergency during regular business hours. He would have to discreetly add himself to her contact list.

"This is Dr. Gold, and—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, your order was supposed to be there this morning, I know. Don't worry, though, the delivery boy's on his way. The shipment came late, but it's all in—"

"I'm not interested in a shipment, Mr. Blue." Why didn't he know who he was? He had been sure that, by using his title instead of his first name, he would recognize it. Did he never talk to his daughter? He refused to believe that Belle had never mentioned his name.

The other end was silent. He gave Moe a chance to puzzle it out, tapping his finger against the desk while he waited for him to recognize the name.

"I'm sorry, whose doctor are you?"

He couldn't help the gusty sigh that escaped his lips. "I'm not anyone's doctor, Mr. Blue. My name is Raphael Gold, and I am professor at—"

"Oh, you're Belle's professor!"

His shoulders relaxed. It may have taken some prodding, but he was now assured that Belle had at least mentioned him before.

"That's right. I'm calling about a gift I'd like to send her, in honor of her upcoming publication."

Moe was again quiet, and he wished he could see his face to know what the other man was thinking.

"Are you asking me to ship flowers to Maine? Isn't there a florist there? Wouldn't that be more practical?"

Gold sighed again. Doing nice things was so difficult. "Not flowers, Mr. Blue. You. I would like to ship you out to Maine."

This silence, he expected. It wasn't every day that a random man called and offered to send someone as a gift to his own daughter. Gold waited, bringing up travel websites on his computer while he did, and soon, Moe cleared his throat.

"Beg pardon?"

Really? He had waited so long for that? He sighed again. "Mr. Blue, your daughter is very upset that her father won't be at her performance. She can't do anything about it, but I can. I would like to fly you out and put you up for a night."

"I don't understand. Why?"

This was a terrible idea. He should just hang up now, pretend it never happened. Except, there was always the chance that Moe would talk to his daughter, and then Belle would know, and be disappointed. He clenched his teeth. If this made Belle happy, his discomfort was worth it.

"Because she deserves it."

In Moe's silence, he continued to repeat to himself that Belle would be happy, assuring himself that this wasn't for naught.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you, Dr. Gold."

Gold tried not to let his relief be audible. "Don't tell Belle."

"Sorry?"

"Keep this a secret from Belle, and we'll consider the debt even. Can you afford to stay two days? If you can, I've found a good rate."

"Oh, please, don't go overboard on my account—"

"Mr. Blue, this is my gift to Belle. I would like to do it right."

It seemed that Moe could not argue with this, and so quieted to allow Gold to talk out the arrangements.

* * *

Wednesday came and went. He could see Belle's nerves growing with every passing minute, so he took her to Granny's for lunch, which seemed to calm her a fraction. He did the same on Thursday, and Granny didn't charge him for her meal—which was nice, because Belle hardly touched it.

"Darling, you have to eat something."

The new, more affectionate, endearment didn't even seem to faze her, and Gold was worried that he was going to have to deal with pale, nervous Belle all afternoon. He had hoped to be able to send her home at the normal hour, because he knew she wanted to change, and he didn't want to be force-feeding her dinner when she should be at home. She'd told him that she'd treated herself to a new dress for the occasion. It wasn't exactly a fancy affair, but the university did hold its monthly readings in the ballroom.

"I'll eat tonight." She forced a smile, shredding a piece of lettuce from her hamburger in her twisting fingers.

"What did that poor vegetable ever do to you?" he asked. Was it bad form if he ate lunch while she merely massacred it?

She looked down at her hands, and blushed. "Oh. Maybe I'll just get a to-go box?"

"So that you can kill your food in the comfort of my office?"

She tapped her toes against his under the table, and he felt a jolt up his leg. It intensified when he saw that she was now smiling at him. He would watch her kill a thousand hamburgers if it meant she would look at him like that.

"I just don't think I can eat right now, and I don't want to waste it. Might as well bring it back to your office."

"Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off?" It killed him a little to suggest it. Since their four-day separation, he hadn't spent an entire weekday afternoon away from Belle, and he did not relish the idea of doing so now.

"Maybe. Maybe I should practice." She chewed her lip, and he considered attempting to replace it with a fry, but dismissed this plot for being far too complicated.

"Maybe you should get a massage." His lips twitched when she glared up at him, apparently not thinking that her nerves were dangerous at all. Ruby was working today, and before he spoke again, he waited a few seconds until she was within earshot. "Or a pedicure."

It worked like a charm. One second, Belle was about to protest again, and then the next, their almost-naked waitress was scooting into the booth with her.

"Belle, he's totally right. I can't believe I didn't think of it. You deserve a mani-pedi for your big night."

Trapped between him and her friend, Belle seemed to deflate—which was doubly good, because she reached for a fry without looking, and popped it into her mouth.

"Bring us the check?" he asked, knowing he had won. "And a box for her."

Ruby gave him the same annoyed look that she gave him every time he spoke—the same look her grandmother gave him, as well—and got up, assuring Belle that she would get off work as soon as they were all paid up. He was glad that they rarely managed to catch her working.

"I guess I'm getting my nails done," she said, and pulled out her phone.

After a brief flare-up of jealousy over whoever she was texting while she was with him, he realized that she wasn't texting, but checking her bank statement. He felt a stab of guilt somewhere behind his sternum. Before she could finish, he was checking his own wallet, thumbing through the bills.

"How much is it?" he asked.

"Hmm?" She looked up, pushing some buttons on her confusing, young-person phone, and then stuffed it in her purse. "Oh, it's fine. I can swing it."

"Didn't you just buy a new dress?"

"Well, yes, but it was forty percent off." She eyed his hands at the wallet, and he tried not to focus on her while he searched through his mental catalogue of businesses in the town. He was certain that he at least owned a salon—now he just had to draw up the price list in his head.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He couldn't remember the list, so he pulled a crisp hundred out of his wallet, and pushed it toward her. Somehow, she paled more. He pushed it closer.

"Dr. Gold, no. I can pay for myself."

"I know you can," he said, though he was not sure of this at all. "Consider this my gift to you."

"But you've already given me so much—"

"Well, this is a practical gift." He wasn't sure what he was saying anymore. He was getting a little antsy about the hundred just lying on their table—not that he thought anyone would steal from him, but if anyone saw Belle take it, she might have a problem.

"How?" She folded her arms, looking like a cross librarian. He tried to ignore the tingle that crept along his neck.

"If you're so nervous tonight that you throw up, it'll reflect poorly on me. I need you to relax so that I look better."

This was a lie, and he knew that she knew it was a lie—no one would even think to relate Belle to him, and if anyone did, they would think her nerves justified—but her features softened nonetheless.

"Fine." She pulled the bill over to her with something akin to reverence, as though she had never seen one before. Perhaps she hadn't.

"There's a salon a few streets down. I'm sure Miss Lucas knows it—Envy or something. They'll treat you well. And I don't want change." He didn't relish paying for Ruby as well, but he hoped that Belle knew he intended for her to. She nodded at his assertion, meeting his eyes, and he told himself that he saw a flicker of understanding. He wasn't sure when he had decided that they could communicate telepathically, but he needed to believe it.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Gold. Ruby's waving to me, so I'll see you tonight, okay? Seven?"

He nodded. "Seven."

He was expecting her to get out of the booth and walk away. Instead, she got out of the booth, walked over to his side, and pecked him on the cheek. He was still sitting in shocked silence when she and Ruby walked out, and it almost made him forget to call the salon, and tell them to take the leftover cost of two manicures and pedicures with the works out of next month's rent.

* * *

Short of wearing a tux, Gold wasn't sure how he would be able to showcase that he was trying to look nice for Belle's special night. Since he was never seen in anything other than a suit, wearing a suit would just make him look like he didn't care.

He wandered through his walk-in closet for over an hour, trying on and discarding shirt after shirt, tie after tie, vest after vest. He reminded himself a bit of his ex-wife, on the rare occasions she was convinced to go out with him and wanted his opinion.

"God," he said, throwing a shirt over his mirror before he was tempted to punch it. "She's turning me into a woman."

Eventually, he decided that the only way to look like he cared was to dress with care, considering what it was that Belle would think was special. As a pawnbroker, he knew more than anyone that monetary value was never as great as personal value, so perhaps he was looking at the wrong section of his wardrobe. He had pulled a selection of his most expensive items out of his closet, trying various designer combinations to see if he could strike gold, and he was amazed that it took him this long to consider that a display of his wealth would not make Belle feel special, as if he had tried for her.

Instead, he turned his attention to his dresser. It wasn't large, since most of his clothing hung in the closet, and its main purpose was for housing all of the things that appeased his vanity—like his cologne and his comb. He didn't have jewelry like a woman had jewelry, but he had a selection of handsome metal things with which he adorned himself, though only his ring was an everyday piece. His valet box—which was more ornate than his wife's jewelry box had been—was not his destination today. There was one thing that he kept elsewhere, to keep it safe in the event he was robbed.

The catch to the top drawer on his dresser had given him troubles when he'd first purchased it, but now tripping it was as easy as opening any other drawer. He had some important papers there, but what he wanted was the small box in the back. Inside was the one pair of cufflinks that he never wore, because he was terrified he would lose them. They were golden fleur-de-lis links, inlaid with dark teal swirls, and they were the last thing his son ever bought him. He was seventeen, and he'd saved up lawn mowing money and his own allowance to be able to afford this gift for the father who didn't deserve it. Gold would never have worn a blue cufflink, but as soon as he'd opened the box, he and his boy had gone out in search of a matching tie.

After his closet adventure, he'd ended up in a light grey silk shirt, and not much else. This would match the cufflinks, and he was pleased to have made a decision. He only had about half an hour to spare. Glad that no one was there to see his private ritual—and only mildly confused as to why he would even consider that factor—he pressed his lips to each cufflink before attaching it. Next came the charcoal waistcoat, the matching silk tie, and the solid black pants and jacket. His pocket square was gold, because he couldn't help indulging himself on occasion, and he slipped his ring on before going to check himself in the mirror. All of his folds were in place, his suit was tailored to fit him exactly as it should, and there was nothing more to do but put on cologne and shoes.

By the time he got to Ballroom C, he was confident. No one else would notice that he had put effort into his appearance, but he just knew that Belle would be able to see it, and that was what mattered. She wasn't there yet, but he was a little bit early, so he busied himself with making sure that the flowers he'd brought were perfect. He'd wanted to get her a dozen red roses, but that had seemed too forward, and too un-professorial. Instead, he got her a mixed bouquet, the roses ranging from gold to peach to light pink, with a solitary red rose tucked into the side. He had researched all rose color meanings to make sure that, in case Belle knew them, there would be no wrong impressions—the one red rose would not be enough to cancel out the whole bouquet's friendship feel.

There were a lot of familiar faces, and he was not the only one with a bouquet. He saw Dr. Hopper standing with Mary Margaret, carrying carnations. Her cubicle mate, Jefferson, was standing around in a top hat with his daughter. Clusters of students that he recognized as being in his class were there, standing with clusters of students that must have been in hers. He counted two bouquets among them. He couldn't tell if it made him nervous or jealous to see that so many people had come to support her with blatant displays of affection, but he quelled any emotion that wasn't indifference, and stared at the door to wait for her to come through it. The event started at seven, and it was almost time, but he had the feeling that, if she was with Ruby, she would be late. It didn't matter, because she wouldn't be reading until eight or so, but it played with his already-frayed nerves like a cat batting at string.

The mayor was in the corner, talking to her pet reporter. He didn't think it was normal for city officials to attend such an event, but perhaps, during the anti-pimp seminar, she, too, had taken a shine to Belle. He filed it away as odd, but explainable, and returned his gaze to the entrance.

Were any of these people her father? He allowed his gaze to dart away from the door every few seconds. Would he know her father if he saw him? Would he just be a taller, older, male version of Belle? He couldn't imagine Belle sharing features with any man, but maybe they had the same blue eyes, or the same symmetric nose. He tried not to think about needing to make a good first impression. It didn't matter what Belle's father thought of him.

Regina was trying to catch his eye—she was not subtle when she decided to stare—and he allowed his attention to flicker to her just enough for her to know that he had seen her. Then, her gaze went back to Sidney, and the doors opened and Belle stepped through, and Gold was ninety-eight percent certain that his heart stopped beating.

She was with Ruby, as he'd suspected, who was wearing about what'd he'd suspected—tiny red dress, huge red heels, a lot of red makeup. The only reason he noticed her was because she was impeding his view of Belle. He could still see enough, though, to know that she looked thousands of times more beautiful than any person had a right to look. His heart stuttered back to life, and now it refused to beat at any sort of normal pace, no matter how tightly he clutched his cane. He drew on a lifetime of stoic looks to make sure that no one could see what he was thinking.

Belle was wearing a black lace boat-neck dress, whose hem scalloped out modestly at her knees. Underneath the lace was a slip of color, the exact same color in Gold's tie and cufflinks. Her curls were piled on top of her head, two tendrils snaking down to frame her face, and he was sure that he had never been more thrilled to see anyone's bare neck. He wasn't close enough to see anything else, but he appeased himself with the knowledge that she would come to him as soon as she got her bearings.

Then, she walked past him to Mary Margaret, not even sparing him a glance. Had she not seen him? Perhaps he had made himself too scarce in his corner. He tried to put himself in her line of sight, but it was useless, and he felt like a schoolboy with a crush. He should just go up to her—he was her professor, after all, and it was completely normal—but he couldn't bring himself to move. Instead, he waited, staring at the expanse of back revealed by the not-quite-immodest dip of her dress, each minute crawling by and adding agony to agony to agony, while she greeted Mary Margaret and Dr. Hopper and Jefferson and anyone who came up to her.

He was giving in to despair, determining that he would go to the bar and get himself a scotch instead of waiting to buy her a drink as well, when she looked over her shoulder and their eyes met. His first thought was that she would glare, angry with him for retreating to his corner when everyone else was being so forthcoming, but he had forgotten that she was Belle, and that she was accustomed to him being antisocial. She flashed him a wide smile, and then turned away.

Seconds later, she had excused herself from the group and was shouldering her way through the growing crowd over to him. He knew that this shouldn't have made his heart pound, that his lips shouldn't have curved up in the smile he saved only for Belle—she was his student, and it was his job to be professional and advise her.

And then he saw that both her fingers and toes were painted gold, and what little control he had over his thoughts exploded.

"Oh, Dr. Gold, I'm so glad to see you!" She didn't hug him, but that was okay, because she had chosen to stand with him over her friends.

"You look—" There were so many things he wanted to say—'beautiful,' 'amazing,' 'delicious'—but all that he could stammer was, "—nice."

It was inadequate, but Belle's cherry lips broke into a smile anyway, and it looked like she wanted to laugh.

"You look nice, too. And it appears that we match." She reached forward to run a finger along his tie, adjusting it at the knot, and his heart flapped against his ribcage like a canary having a seizure. Needing something to do, he brandished his bouquet at her.

"Is there a place for these? It looks as though you're getting quite the collection."

Her hands flew to her mouth, and based on his observations gleaned by stalking her from the moment she entered, this was the only bouquet that had caused her this much pleasure. He couldn't help feeling smug, and he was certain that it crept into his grin.

Then, she hit him on the shoulder, and he jumped in surprise.

"I'm sorry, did you just hit me for buying you flowers?" He rested his hands on his cane, giving her his annoyed-professor look. She returned it with her hands on her hips.

"Stop buying me things. You're spoiling me. I'm surprised you even let me buy my own dress."

Feeling smug again, he shrugged, glancing away so that he could remain aloof. Looking at her face was making him grin too much—a terrible sign for his liquor cabinet once they parted for the night. "I can't help it, dearie. I've no one else to spoil." He hoped that he didn't sound like a doting father—he even considered praying that she didn't think of him that way.

She flattened her lips at him, but reached for the roses anyway. "Well, thank you. I'll just go—"

"Hello, Raphael."

If Belle had warmed him up, this voice just broke a barrel of ice over him. What he wanted to do was throw Belle behind him, or crush her against his side so that he was sure she was there and safe and with him. Instead, he looked at the ground, a mirthless smile playing at the corners of his lips.

It didn't matter that he hadn't heard that voice in person for over a decade. He would know it anywhere. When he looked up, turning on the balls of his feet, he was unsurprised to see his ex-wife standing there. She was the same as she'd always been, just a little older, and a little less sad looking. She had no right to look less sad, but he supposed that, with Belle standing there, he didn't look as sad as he ought to, either.

"Milah," he all but growled. Belle was still standing there, clutching her roses and looking from face to face in confusion. He let his hand hover over the small of her back, resting it heavily on her bare skin when she inched closer to him. It calmed him down to have her near, even though the circumstances weren't ideal.

"How have you been?" She was holding a glass of red wine, and he noted with grim satisfaction that there were no rings on any of her fingers.

He could tell she was making an effort at being civil, but he was not so good as to play along.

"What are you doing here?" The last time he'd seen her face, she was screaming that he was coward, that she hated him, that she never wanted to see his disgusting face again. Why had she sought him out?

Belle, however, was having none of this. He was almost afraid that she was going to hit him with the flowers, but instead, she elbowed him in the ribs. Even that made him want to wrap his arms around her, but he kept still other than to flick her a dark look. His gaze stayed otherwise on Milah, who was watching with narrowed eyes.

"Where are your manners? He's fine," Belle said. She turned to his ex-wife, and offered her hand. He had the urge to bat it down, not wanting Milah to taint perfect, innocent, beautiful Belle with her scaly snake-touch. "I'm Isabelle Blue, and he would also like to know how you are."

Perhaps she sensed that calling herself Belle Blue would make her sound ridiculous in front of the snake-woman, and Gold was glad that he was the only one in this little conversation who would get to call her that.

"Milah." She reached out and shook her hand, and he could see that Belle's grip was much firmer. "Milah Gold."

For a second, he thought that Belle had stopped breathing. She slid her hand out of Milah's, and seemed to shrink against the hand he had braced on her back. Milah already struck a more impressive figure—tall and square, she had a good four inches on Belle, even in heels—and now his Belle, who had already tamed the beast, was shying away from the gorgon.

"Sister?" she asked, and he thought she almost looked hopeful. Milah folded her arms, looking Belle up and down. He wanted to stand in front of her as her human shield.

"Ex-wife. Girlfriend?"

"Enough," he said, unsure of where the power in his voice came from. He may have been a coward, but he wasn't going to let Belle suffer at the tongue of a serpent. He curled his fingers against her hip, but not far enough around that Milah could see. "What do you want Milah? What did you come here for?"

"I was invited." She took a sip of her wine while he frowned.

"Invited? By who? This is just a reading." He would apologize to Belle for that later.

"The mayor. She's hiring my firm to design the new City Hall."

"And you came all the way back to Storybrooke for that?" He didn't believe this. He did, however, believe that Regina had invited her. It would explain her presence at this arbitrary event.

"I came because she asked me to, and because I decided to come see Baden."

His stomach made a valiant effort to escape through his knees, but he thought he kept his composure. How could she look at him so steadily when, with a single word, she had him reeling? Why wasn't she reeling, too? He tightened his grip on Belle, who was looking between the two of them with her tongue between her lips—her puzzled-and-thinking look.

"You mean his grave?" His voice came out in a hiss, and he felt Belle's arm slip around his waist. He wanted to care what this would look like to other people, but he couldn't bring himself to.

Milah closed her eyes. "Yes. His grave."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Why? You've never visited it before. Why now?"

"Well, perhaps I'd have visited it if I'd been able to attend the—"

He could tell this was about to get vicious, so he whirled on Belle before Milah could say 'funeral,' biting her name out between gritted teeth.

"Yes?" She still had her arm on him, but he let his slide off of her so that he could reach for his wallet. Too frustrated to count out bills, he just handed her the whole thing.

"Here. Get me a Lagavulin. Neat. And get yourself something, too."

"Yes, sir," she said, though she looked startled, and he had to wave the wallet in her face before she reached forward and took it. "A what neat?"

"Lagavulin, dear," Milah said. He wanted to strangle her. "Don't you drink scotch?"

Gold closed his eyes. "Just get me a Johnnie Walker Blue. Neat."

"Right," she said, keeping her eyes away from Milah. "I'll be right back."

When he turned around again, Milah was holding her elbow to keep her wine hand supported. He'd recognize the look in her eyes any day—she was getting ready to pick a fight. Now that Belle was gone, he could take her.

"So, your little chippie calls you 'Sir,' does she?"

He clenched his teeth, counting to three because that was the highest number he could reach before his silence became unusual.

"She is my student." He refused to refute her 'chippie' comment. He would only be able to use words like 'perfect' and 'pure' and 'beautiful,' which wouldn't help his case much.

"So you've finally done it. I always knew you would end up coercing yourself a girlfriend." She took a sip of wine, and he wanted to knock it into her face. Instead, he clutched his cane.

"She is just my student. The only grad student I happen to be advising." If he poisoned her, would anybody notice?

"Do you get flowers for all your students?" she asked, and the look on her face told him that she was sure of her win. This one, however, he had in the bag.

"I do when they get published, and there is a city-wide event coordinated in their honor." He gestured to the small stage at the front of the ballroom, and Milah followed his gaze.

He was about to gloat, when someone else said Milah's name. It was male, which meant that it wasn't Regina, but he couldn't think who else would know her, and he did recognize it. When he turned and saw who it was, he was too baffled to feel the familiar rush of rage along his spine. How did Killian Jones know his ex-wife?

Milah, for her part, looked uncomfortable. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that he was sure her teeth were clenched, and she had wrapped her fingers around the elbow they were supporting.

"Hello, Killian," she said. Gold looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed. Jones was wearing a suit similar to his, though it was clear that it wasn't as well-tailored, and it was all black. He looked like a pirate about to play with his favorite toy.

"Haven't seen you in awhile." He stepped closer to her, while Gold looked between the two of them, trying not to appear as though he were doing so. What was going on?

"How many years has it been?" Milah asked. They sounded like old lovers, but Gold pushed that thought down. Milah was at least ten years his senior.

He felt a small pang when he considered that he was certainly more than ten years older than Belle.

"Three," Jones said, taking a sip of his own red wine. "Too long."

Why were they both even here? Gold considered slipping away, for once okay with the fact that his wife thought he was a coward, since this fact would keep him from this conversation, but then there was a glass being pressed into his hand from behind, and his fingers brushed Belle's.

He started to murmur his thanks to her, but it was lost when she spotted Jones, and gasped in delight.

"Hook!"

"Belle!"

And then, because the universe just wanted to make his night as miserable as possible, she all but leapt into his arms, careful to keep both of their glasses from spilling. Gold fixed his eyes on a point to everyone's left, focusing all his willpower on not downing the scotch in one go.

"Oh, Gold, I didn't see you there," Jones said. Gold looked up at him, sure that he was wearing his blankest look, and said nothing. "Must be because you're so slight."

"Behave," Belle said, taking a sip of her pink wine. He was certain that Milah would mention that later, but he had no time to think of that, because his brain was about to short-circuit. Jones had his arm around Belle's waist, hand splayed over her hip, touching all of the places that were his to touch. He wanted her to rip herself away, tell him that he had no right to put his hands anywhere near her person, but she seemed content to stand in his grip. Was Jones here as her date?

"I'm so glad you came." Belle squeezed his side, and Gold was forced to grip his cane.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, love."

She had been lying when she said they only met at the diner—he was sure of it. He wanted to walk away, or beat someone with his cane, but instead he stood there, forcing out slow sips of his scotch until Belle gasped. He looked up, pushing down the hope that Jones had done something punishably wrong, and Belle was squinting at something far behind him.

"Is that—" She slid out from Jones' arm, coming around to rest a hand on Gold's elbow while she continued to squint.

"Yes, Miss Blue?" Speaking was all he trusted himself to do, since he was afraid that he would grab her and whisk her away if he gave himself control over his own motor functions.

"There's a man over there that looks like—but it can't—"

He tried to follow her gaze. It seemed to be focused on a portly, slouching man, carrying a colorful bouquet of pansies. He didn't have any of Belle's features, but he looked like he could match the voice Gold heard over the phone—jerking his neck around like he feared being attacked, clutching the flowers like they were the only thing that could save him.

"It can't?" He couldn't keep the low growl out of his voice. He was too anxious to see what she thought.

With a squeak, and a final squeeze to his elbow, Belle darted off, leaving him with Milah and Jones. This time, however, he knew that he was going to leave, so he turned to them with his most pleasantly unpleasant half-smile, resting one hand on his cane, and then the scotch over his hand.

"Well, I trust you'll both have a nice evening. Alone." If he'd had a hat, he would have tipped it, but since he didn't, he just inclined his head and pivoted away.

Milah caught his arm. "Raphael," she hissed. He closed his eyes and counted to three.

"What?" He refused to look at her, instead searching out Belle. He spotted her with the man, who looked nervous no more.

"I didn't come over to pick a fight with you." She removed her hand from his arm, but made no move to come stand in his line of sight, for which he was grateful.

"Oh?" He didn't care. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care.

Except he did care, which was why he hadn't just walked away yet. He may never have loved Milah, and she may never have loved him, but they had been married for a long time, and she was the mother of his son, and he couldn't just walk away without knowing what it was she wanted to say.

"I came to make amends."

He let out a chuckle, more of a mocking gesture than an amused one, and glanced at her. She'd said her piece, and he felt a like a tiny weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was, by no means, the sort of groveling he'd imagined for so long, a fantasy that kept him sane after Baden's funeral, but it would do, because he didn't have time for groveling. Belle was just across the room.

"I'm not interested in amends." Before she could say more, he was walking away, sipping at his scotch to keep the impish grin off his face.

By the time he reached Belle, he was sure that he looked reasonably stoic and normal. All he needed to do now was make sure that he made a good impression on her father, and he would consider this a good night.

Before he could introduce himself, Belle had launched herself at him, and he felt the base of her wine glass clink between his shoulder blades as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He staggered backwards, gripping his cane, but Belle planted her feet and steadied him before he had to.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Gold!" She squeezed him, and he tried not to shiver when her nose brushed a ticklish spot on his neck. He wrapped his free arm around her, patting the small of her back. Why did she have to expose so much skin? Her father would think he was an old creep, touching his daughter's bare back.

"For what?" He was still holding on to the idea that Moe hadn't told her about their correspondence, but her arms around him told him that this was futile.

"You know what." She squeezed him once more before taking a step back, and he felt a cold rush of air filling her empty space. She took up her place at her father's side, looping an arm through his and leaning into his belly.

"You must be Mr. Blue," Gold said, switching his cane to his drink hand to offer the right one to shake.

"Dr. Gold." Moe wrung his hand, shaking his arm up and down with clumsy enthusiasm. "I can't thank you enough for bringing me here. Truly, this is the best gift anyone could give a father." He leaned over and kissed Belle's forehead.

"It was no trouble at all." He wanted to pull his hand away, but Belle's flushed cheeks and smile kept him polite.

"Well," she said, gently prying her father's hand out of his. She knew him so well. "I've got lots of people to introduce him to, so we'll see you in a bit, okay?"

Had anyone else asked him this question, he'd have assumed they were making their polite exit, with no intention of reconvening. Belle, however, was searching his eyes, like she was looking for his answer there before he had the chance to speak.

"I'll save a table," he assured her.

* * *

After replenishing his scotch, he did save a table. He wished that it just had three chairs, but all of them seemed to have at least twelve, and so he couldn't really be picky. Her guests trickled in and sat one by one, and only Jefferson made any attempt at conversation. Gold chose instead to speak with his daughter, who looked to be about ten, and who was much more endearing than her father—though he supposed that he owed Jefferson for being annoying enough to drive Belle into his office all the time.

Jones did join them, but Milah did not, and for that, he was grateful. The other man sat between Ruby and Mary Margaret, and didn't even try to make eye contact. Belle ended up between him and her father, but she was only sitting for about thirty seconds before a man took the stage to introduce her. For once, Gold didn't even try to keep the pride out of his face, or the grin from playing at the corners of his lips.

It dropped, however, when Moe leaned toward him under the cover of everyone's polite clapping, and whispered, "I see the way you look at her, Dr. Gold, and I'm warning you—don't get any ideas about my little girl."

By the time Gold had processed that his gift was threatening him, Moe was back in his seat, looking like he was about to burst with pride watching his daughter. He didn't know how to respond—he wanted to deny that he was looking at Belle in any particular way, but he also was not about to allow a man who owed him a debt of gratitude push him around.

In the end, there wasn't much that he could say, because Belle took her place at the podium and his attention was riveted.

"Um, hello," she said, giving a self-conscious chuckle. He could see her clenching the lip of the podium between her fingers, and he wished he could stand behind her and whisper encouragements.

"I wasn't expecting such a large audience—they told me no one really comes to these things." There was a forced chuckle around the audience and Belle paled. She glanced at their table, and he smiled at her. This seemed to give her confidence, and she straightened up with a new glint in her eyes.

"Oh, I know, did Dr. Gold threaten all of you to be here?"

This got an actual laugh from the crowd, and he tried not to scowl as everyone moved around to search for him. Jefferson reached over his daughter's head to clap him on the shoulder. Belle smiled at him.

"So, anyway, I'm going to start reading now, because I don't think it really needs much preamble." She paused just long enough to shuffle some papers in front of her, then she adjusted the microphone and began.

Her voice was clear and strong, and Gold was certain that it would have carried even without the microphone. As nervous as she'd been, he was surprised that she could sound so confident, like she had been reading her work for audiences her entire life. The story was about a florist, and he felt Moe jump when this detail was revealed. He hoped that this was where the similarities to real life ended. The protagonist was lonely, and had trouble interacting with people, so Gold assumed that Belle—sweet, innocent Belle—would write a story about him finding hope and love and kindness.

But it seemed that, either his sweet, innocent Belle knew that those sorts of stories did not get published in prestigious magazines, or that she wasn't the sweet, innocent writer he would have believed her to be. It had all the grotesqueness of a southern gothic novel, written in the poetic lyricism that he would have expected from Belle. By the end of the story, the main character had both robbed a grave, and killed the woman with whom he'd been flirting. Moe's jaw was sagging, as was everyone's in the room.

Not his, though. He could no more keep the proud, impish grin from his face than Belle could keep from being amazing, and if he hadn't known before, he certainly knew now that he was hopelessly, insanely, irrevocably in love with her.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N - THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING :D 33333_

* * *

Belle's cheeks were flaming by the time she finished her performance. The idea of reading this story—this story that she knew no one would associate with her—had been eating away at her nerves since last week, and now that it was over, she wanted to curl up and hide. She knew it was shocking, but it wasn't half as shocking as most of the things that literature scholars studied, and this thought soothed her, since they made up the largest portion of her audience. She tried not to think about the fact that Jefferson had spent most of the reading with his hands over his daughter's ears.

When the applause—tentative, at first, and led by her table of friends—died down, she all but fled the stage. Her father looked dumbfounded, and she couldn't handle that right then, so she instead turned to Dr. Gold.

"Well?" she asked, but he was looking at her like he'd never quite seen her before, and she hoped she already knew the answer.

"Should I be looking for a therapist for you, dearie?"

She laughed, and his knee bumped against hers. He looked away from her face, and she assumed this meant that he had touched her on purpose, and was trying not to draw attention. She almost reached for his hand to squeeze, but then her father's arm was around her shoulders, crushing her to his side.

"Oh, my girl, that was wonderful."

She wrapped her arms around him, trying not to protest when he pressed a kiss to her carefully-piled curls.

"Thanks, Dad. I'm glad you're here."

She wasn't sure that was true anymore, though, because, if Dr. Gold's mocking reaction was to get her a therapist, she could only imagine what her father's real reaction was. He didn't mention it, though. He just pressed another kiss to her head before releasing her.

She turned back to Dr. Gold with an apologetic smile, and was about to reach for his hand under the table again, when her father's voice froze her.

"It's a shame your boyfriend couldn't make it. I wanted to meet him."

There was a dull rushing in her ears as half the contents of her unacknowledged-guilt folder spilled out around her. She was glad that her eyes hadn't yet met Gold's, because she could feel his gaze burning holes into her forehead, and she was sure she would have evaporated if she got the full brunt of it. She forced herself to look at her father, hoping that the smile she stuck on her face was neutral and pleasant, as befitting the question.

"Oh, well, this isn't really his cup of tea. He's—you know—more of a physical person than an academic person." Which, Belle realized, as soon the words left her mouth, was the worst possible thing she could say. She could almost feel Dr. Gold's hand clenching around his cane, and she flushed all the way to the backline of her dress. Her father looked like she imagined any father might, when presented with the idea that his daughter had taken on a physical boyfriend.

"Not to say—that—anything—untoward—I think I need more wine." She grabbed her glass, thanking whatever god was listening that she had finished it before going up to read, and then turned to the rest of the table. "Ruby? Do you—?"

Taking the hint, the other woman tipped her full glass back and drained it, wincing. Mary Margaret followed suit, and then Hook did, as well—despite not being looked at—and then they were all rushing to the bar like it was their salvation.

"Oh my god," Belle said, dropping her head to her hand. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—"

"Calm down," Ruby said, rubbing her shoulder. "You're almost thirty. Your dad can't be surprised you're having sex."

Mary Margaret took up residence on her other shoulder. "I'm sure he'll get over his shock."

Belle wished that was the problem—sure, it was a problem, but that one could have easily been explained away. She felt like a traitor and a coward for not telling Dr. Gold before, and then for not even acknowledging him after.

Hook appeared in front of her, and slid a finger under her chin to tip it up. "He'll forgive you."

She could see the women nodding in her periphery, but Hook was looking at her like he was trying to tell her something with his eyes, and she had the feeling that he knew that she wasn't upset about her father.

"I have to leave him," she told him, while Ruby and Mary Margaret each hugged a different half of her body.

He moved his finger. "I know."

For some reason, his conviction soothed her, and she straightened up, hugging Ruby and Mary Margaret so that they would think they had helped. Though Belle didn't want more wine, they were all obliged now, since that had been their excuse, so she stood at the bar and waited. Once Ruby had engaged Mary Margaret in a conversation about Victor and Billy, Belle turned to Hook.

"Yes, love?" He leaned against the bar, looking at her like she was the only thing to look at for miles. She crossed her arms.

"What is going on with you and Dr. Gold's ex-wife?"

She was not expecting the dreamy look that crossed over Hook's face. He wasn't looking at her anymore, and his smile hinted at fond memories and things that Belle was sure she didn't want to know.

"Well?" Did she want to know?

"A couple years ago, we had an affair." His eyes focused on her, and his lip curled in his pirate grin. "And by that, I mean we spent about two weeks in bed, having lots of sex."

Belle wrinkled her nose. "Yes, I know what an affair is. Was she married at the time?" Maybe that was why he and Gold hated each other.

He shook his head, allowing his gaze to drift away from her again, possibly looking for Milah. "I didn't even know she was Gold's ex-wife until tonight."

Well, that did eliminate one possible reason for their feud, but it opened the door to thousands more. Belle wasn't sure how to respond, so she just shook her head at him, accepting her wine glass when the bartender pushed it toward her.

"You ready?" Ruby asked, appearing at her elbow. Belle nodded, allowing herself to be towed back toward the table.

When they arrived, Dr. Gold was no longer in his seat.

Belle tried to push down the tiny bubble of panic that rose in her throat, keeping her movements slow and steady so that no one would find her scan of the room odd. Her father was talking to her, and she hoped that she was giving him normal answers, but she wasn't paying much attention. After a minute of searching, she spotted the back of Dr. Gold's head off to the side of the room, near the bar. He was standing with his ex-wife, and the mayor. Though he was too far away to see clearly, she thought that his shoulders looked tense, and that he was standing as though prepared to pounce at the slightest provocation.

Satisfied that she had found him, she turned back in her seat and devoted her attention to her tablemates. This lasted all of a minute before she was straining around again to see him. She expected him to come back when he finished his conversation, but that didn't make the wait any less torturous. She missed his presence at her side, missed being able to share secret glances and snide looks. She was so stupid.

A few minutes later, he still hadn't returned, and when Belle turned to check on his whereabouts, she found a mass of her composition students standing in front of her. A few of them were carrying large bouquets, and they were all clustered around the flower-bearers in a clear display of who had chipped in for which. Belle pressed a hand to her heart, a smile spreading its way across her cheeks.

"You all came!" She hurried to stand up, accepting the first bouquet from a group of jocks, and then the second from some girls. These joined her other bouquets on the table, and then she accepted two more from them, and then the congratulatory hugs and handshakes started.

"Belle, you were brilliant!" one girl gushed, squeezing her side.

"Yeah, we wanted to tell you sooner, but we were afraid of Dr. Gold," a boy said, rubbing the back of his neck. A closer look revealed that all of the boys in the group were either doing something to occupy their hands, or gazing at her in unabashed adoration. She felt a rush of pride—and ignored whatever she felt at their mention of Dr. Gold, who she could no longer see.

"In the future, you are welcome to come and talk to me no matter who is there," she said, unable to keep from grinning anyway. "And thank you all so much! This is more than I expected."

They stayed in their cluster for a few minutes before people started making their excuses to leave, and then Belle had to accept more hugs and handshakes. She expected some stragglers, but anyone straggling was deterred by Hook wandering over and sliding his arm around her back. Trying not to laugh at the sad puppy look on their faces, Belle waved her goodbyes.

"Do you need something?" she asked out of the corner of her mouth, still smiling and waving because people were turning back to do so as they walked out.

Hook said nothing, just patted her on the arm. Belle would have been confused, but she was now back on her visual room circuit to find Dr. Gold. At this point, it was ridiculous for him not to be there, and if she dragged him back now, it would look less strange than it would have before. She just needed to find him again.

Then, she found Regina and Milah, and realized that Dr. Gold was gone.

Hook saw the moment that she realized this—she wasn't sure when he had become so perceptive, or so supportive, but she wasn't complaining—and squeezed her shoulder.

"Did he leave?" she asked, looking around in vain.

"Just stepped out a minute ago. Looked about as ugly as usual."

Belle had nothing to say to that, so she sat back down, folding herself into her chair like the disappointment she felt was a physical entity, and she needed to avoid it with her body. Hook took Dr. Gold's seat, and her father squeezed her around the shoulders again, as though nothing had transpired since the first time he'd congratulated her.

She didn't care how late it got. Once this was over, she was going to find Dr. Gold, and apologize.

* * *

Though it made her feel guilty, Belle was having difficulty paying attention to her father while she drove him back to the hotel. She was keeping enough of an ear out to be able to make plans for tomorrow, but other than that, there were standard answers and standard questions. She wanted to ask about the shop, but that would have to wait until tomorrow, after she'd made amends with Dr. Gold.

She didn't notice when her father fell silent. When she checked out the window, she saw him twisting his fingers in his lap, but she just took it as him being nervous about not being drunk after dark. She hadn't let him touch any alcohol that night, and she had the suspicion that he would be at the hotel bar as soon as she dropped him off.

It wasn't a long drive to the hotel—or anywhere in Storybrooke—but even Belle realized that the silence had stretched for an uncomfortable amount of time by the time she pulled into a parking space.

"All right, I have to go to my office for at least a few hours in the morning, but I'll come pick you up around noon?" She hoped that his nervousness was due to lack of drink—she had never hoped this before, but it would appease her curiosity about the way his eyes darted from side to side like a nervous dog.

"Dad?" she prompted when he didn't answer.

"Belle—my girl—why don't you just come home?"

Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't that. She blinked, too taken aback to know how to react, and her father seemed to take her silence as some sort of signal to go on. All of his words spilled out in a rush, each chasing after the previous as though afraid they would get trapped in his throat if they didn't exit now.

"It's just—you've been gone for so long—and what are you really doing here, Belle? In this nothing town in Maine? Studying books? You should be back home, with the people who love you, doing something respectable."

Belle still didn't know what to say, so she latched onto the one question to which she had a definite answer.

"I'm getting my doctorate."

The look on his face told her that this was not a good enough response, and Belle felt the color rise in her cheeks.

"Belle, a woman your age shouldn't still be in school. You should have a real job—you could have been a teacher, Belle, or a nurse. Why don't you just come home, and you can work in the shop until you're back on your feet—"

"Dad, I'm on my feet right now." It was important to convince him. She would never listen to him about this, but she wanted him to change his mind. She wanted to be here.

"Are you? I mean, tonight was wonderful, Belle, but where are you going now? An apartment not even big enough for guests? I don't think—"

The fog in Belle's head disappeared like he'd shot it. Belle smacked the wheel, whirling in her seat to face him. "Oh, my apartment's not big enough? What about your apartment? Where would I sleep if I came home, Dad? Another apartment like the one I have, or would I sleep on your couch, and wake up every time you stumble home drunk?"

She knew she was at the top of the mountain in her rant, but she found herself petering out instead of descending, guilt filling the spaces from which her anger was retreating. Moe didn't speak, just looked through the windshield and twiddled his thumbs in his lap. He opened his mouth a few times, but closed it soon after. Belle sighed.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm just tired. It's been a long night. Why don't you go up, and I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nodded, still twisting his hands in his lap with such vigor, Belle was afraid he'd hurt himself. After a second's pause, she put her hand over his, and they stilled.

"Goodnight, Dad." She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, and he nodded again.

"Goodnight, my girl."

Belle forced herself to wait until she knew he was inside and safe before peeling out of the parking lot. After their fight, she was even more resolved to see Dr. Gold, and she fumbled with her phone for a few seconds before managing to get the right number.

It rang five times, and then went to voicemail. Muttering under her breath, she hung up, and focused her attention on getting home as fast as possible. Usually, when she had to walk anywhere near her apartment at night, she was on her guard enough for three people. Tonight, she barreled up the stairs without even putting her hand on her pepper spray.

She was freezing, having only brought a shawl for the short walk from car to ballroom, so she wanted to change before going on a wild Gold chase. The temperature was approaching 30, and her skin was numb from her brief jaunt outside. She pulled her jeans on before she'd even gotten her dress off, hardly able to feel the cold denim scratching up her even colder legs. She had the presence of mind to put a bra on before tugging her sweater over her head, mussing her curls a bit. Her strappy heels were exchanged for the Uggs she kept around as outdoor-savvy slippers, and then she was pulling on her blue coat and racing for the door.

She tried Dr. Gold's phone again while she hurried down the stairs, and when he didn't answer, she slowed. With no idea of where he lived, looking for him was a fool's errand. She assumed he was awake and running from his problems, but for all she knew, he was at home, in bed, hating her more and more each time her calls awakened him.

She consoled herself with the idea that Dr. Gold would never let a nuisance go unpunished. No, if she was waking him up, he would answer his phone and give her a piece of his mind.

The third time she called, she was on her way to campus. She left a brief message, trying not to tell him that she was worried, but sure that he would be able to tell anyway. His car wasn't near the English building, but the ballrooms were close enough that he might have just walked.

She tried the door, though, and it was locked, which meant that he could have been inside, but she couldn't be. For a minute, she just leaned against the door and tried to think. It was hard, because she was cold and frantic, but she forced herself to figure out a new plan. The only other place that came to mind was his shop, so she set off for her car again with the intent of making it there.

She called him three times in the five minute drive. The third time she reached his voicemail, she snarled, "I know the beast never sleeps," and then hung up, feeling foolish.

When she reached the pawnshop and saw his car parked out front, her heart all but stopped. She let out a squeak of triumph, hardly paying attention as she lurched her car into a spot. She was only briefly deterred by the absence of light through the windows, and was soon pounding on the wall near the locked glass door.

"Dr. Gold!" She beat her fists against the paneling, not noticing when the wood started to bite into her fingers. What if he was somewhere in the back, dead? She didn't think he was suicidal, but he was the saddest, loneliest person she'd ever met. Perhaps seeing his wife had sent him over some edge?

She refused to believe this, and continued calling his name and pounding. After two minutes, however, she was forced to accept the fact that he was not inside. She turned, and sank to the sidewalk, propping herself against the door. As she dialed him once more, she couldn't shake the thought that something had happened, that she would find him in a million little pieces, like whatever it was he built in his free time.

He didn't answer, so she called Hook, because he was the first person she could think of.

It was noisy when he picked up, and she had to strain to hear him. He must have gone to a bar or something when they left. She wouldn't have been surprised if Ruby was with him.

"Hi," she said, once he had managed to get out a coherent greeting above the noise.

"Belle? Are you okay?"

She considered the question, watching Dr. Gold's car. "No. Not really."

"What's—hang on, one sec." There was a lot of hustle and bustle, and what sounded like glass breaking, and then there was a silence so abrupt, she thought the phone cut off.

"Hook?"

"Here, here, I'm here, sorry. I think I inadvertently started a fight on my way out. Oh well. What's up?"

"I can't find Dr. Gold." Belle felt her cheeks flush. It was silly of her to call Hook—just because he had recognized why she was upset earlier, it didn't mean that he wanted to be the recipient of all of her insanity.

"Well, it's late, and he's old. He's probably asleep."

"He's not asleep." She was sure of this—she had to be sure of this. If he was, then all of this frenzied searching was for naught, and she didn't think she could handle that.

"Belle, love, I know you've got some weird crush on him, but that doesn't make him any younger. That man is ancient and ornery. He's asleep."

"I found his car," she said, stung by his assessment. "And he's not that old."

"You found his car?"

"Yes, it's outside his shop."

"Well, maybe he's in his shop, then."

"No." She turned her head to peek through the door once more, and her breath fogged the glass. "I checked."

Hook sighed, and she felt a little better knowing that he was resigning himself to helping her.

"Fine. He's an old cripple, so he can't have gone far."

"Hook." There was a warning in her voice, and he let out a scoff of air.

"I like you, Belle, not him. I'm not going to sugarcoat my feelings."

She supposed that this was reasonable enough, and that she couldn't expect Hook to get over his hate enough to help her as well as change his opinion.

"Fine. I don't—oh, my hand." She raised up the hand she'd been using to pound against the wall, noting a thin, bloody line illuminated by the glow of her phone.

"Your hand?"

"I cut it." Too worried about her situation to be worried about that, she let her hand drop, and settled more comfortably against the door. "Anyway, I think you're right, he can't have gone far. But I don't know where he'd have gone."

"What does he like? I think there's a pub somewhere near his shop—maybe he went there?"

"No." She shook her head. It could have been reasonable—he did seem to like his scotch—but she knew, with certainty, that he would have wanted to be somewhere alone. "He likes building things?"

"So, what, you think he went to a lumber yard or something?"

She let out a huff of air, watching it form a cloud in front of her. "No. You asked me what he liked—wait. Wait, I've got an idea."

"What's your—"

"Shh, I need to think." She held a finger up as though he could see her, and she heard him scoffing on the other end again.

"Need I remind you that you called—"

"Shh!"

He fell silent, and she had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. Then, she went over the night in her head. First, he'd been happy to see her. Then, they'd seen his wife, and he had become aggravated. From there, she'd said something about a grave, and then Belle had seen her father, and introduced them. He had sat with her and looked happy and proud, until her father had mentioned Gaston, and then she hadn't spoken to him. The last person she saw him with was his wife—maybe he'd gone to murder her?

"Belle?"

Something clicked into place, and Belle gasped. Hook repeated her name, but she cut him off with a yelp of, "The cemetery!"

"The cemetery?"

"Is it near his shop?"

Hook made a humming noise like he was following a map, and Belle waited for him to consider the town layout, hauling herself off the frozen concrete. "About two blocks, yeah. Why? You're not going there, are you?"

"Of course I am. I'm sure he's there now." She wondered how she hadn't thought of it before. "How do I get there?"

He barked out a laugh that was not altogether pleasant. "I'm not telling you how to get to a cemetery in the middle of the night, Belle. It's dangerous. Go home."

"Hook, I'm going to be fine. Tell me where it is."

"No way. It's late. You could get attacked by zombies."

"Hook."

"No. Get in your car or I'm coming to get you myself. I'm not far."

"Killian."

There was silence on the other end, and then he heaved a sigh. "Fine. All right, are you standing with your back to the door?"

Belle adjusted herself until she was. "Mmhmm."

"Take a right and walk until you see Yellow Lane."

"Really? That's what it's called?"

"Yes, Belle, that's what it's called. I hope you're watching where you're going. I don't like this at all. I know the shady people in town and you are just their type."

Belle appreciated his concern, but it was only a hindrance at that point. "Hook, my apartment's far worse than this street. Besides, I have—" She paused, realizing that she had left her purse, and thus her pepper spray, in the car. "—pepper spray." Hook didn't need to know that.

"Oh, good, so you can make them angry while you run away. I hope you're not in your dress anymore."

"Don't worry, I changed."

She hadn't been concerned about being alone in the dark before, but with Hook worrying in her ear, she couldn't help but feel a bit more alert to her surroundings. Storybrooke was well-lit at night, but she was heading off the beaten path. When she reached Yellow Lane, it was like the city itself was telling her to turn back. All of the streetlamps were burnt out, save for one in the middle. It was exactly the sort of place she'd expect to find Dr. Gold sulking.

Without realizing it, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Is it on Yellow Lane?"

"Yeah, just at the end."

Of course. Of course it was at the end of the dark, barren street. She wouldn't have been surprised to see coyotes and tumbleweeds. She started forward, forcing herself to take large, confident strides. Confident people did not get attacked.

"Great. This road is so friendly and welcoming."

"Just stay on the phone and scream if anything happens. I'll be there before anyone can take your innocence, love."

"It's a bit late for my innocence," she said, relieved that he was making an effort to joke. Hook said something, but she could see the top of a mausoleum looming up ahead, and some gnarled trees that could only belong in a place of death, so she didn't hear what it was.

"Okay, I'm here. I'm going to go now."

"Don't you dare hang up this phone, Belle. Anyone who lurks around a cemetery at night is not safe, and I don't care who they are. Even if Gold's there, he is old and cripple, and I have no doubts in my mind that you are both going to get mugged—"

"I'll call you when I get home safe. Thanks for your help, you're a peach."

"Belle—"

She hung up before he could finish the thought, gripping her phone tight enough to hurt her fingers. The cemetery was an open expanse of land, not the gated monstrosity she had expected, and walking onto it would be no different than walking onto any patch of grass surrounding the sidewalk. Still, she stopped at the border, staring at the tombstones and statues scattered about.

_Do the brave thing and bravery will follow_.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the threshold of the cemetery. No ghosts flew out to greet her and no vampires seemed to have their slumber disturbed, which soothed her, so she took another few steps. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out more shapes—there was a small fountain, a tombstone marked with a dove, and at least three cherub statues.

It took her a full minute of silent observation to realize that the man sitting on the bench in the corner was made of flesh, not rock, and when she did, she stifled a scream. She heard more than saw him turn toward her, and she almost tossed bravery to the wind in the interest of fleeing—until she saw the glint of moonlight against the golden head of a cane.

Knees weak with relief, she stumbled toward the bench. She didn't care what Hook said—Dr. Gold made her feel safe, and she knew they would be fine now that she had found him.

"Belle?" he asked when she was close enough to see his face. She lurched into the seat next to him, ignoring the way he stiffened at the contact, turning his face away.

"I found you," she said, triumphant. She scooted closer, until their legs were all but welded together, needing to prove to herself that he was real, and not just a graveyard ghost.

He looked at her, as if not quite sure she was there, and his hand fluttered over her knee for a second before he settled it back on his cane. "You were looking for me?"

"All over." Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, her fingers started to throb, and she realized that her hands and neck and face were all stinging with cold. She wanted to slide his arm around her and burrow into his side, but that would be unseemly, so she stuffed her hands in her coat pockets.

"Why?"

Loss of adrenaline was also bringing back her ability to be reasonable, and his question tinged her cheeks pink.

"I wanted to apologize," she said, voice so quiet, it was almost a squeak. She flushed deeper. He was going to think she was insane once he listened to all of the messages on his machine. He probably wouldn't be wrong.

"For what?"

He looked away, though, and his voice turned gruff—he knew what. The fact that he was pretending not to know strengthened her resolve, since it indicated the real need for this act. She refused to think about what this meant for either of them.

"I should have told you about Gaston. And just so you know, he's not really my boyfriend. He's just—" She paused, trying to find the right word.

"Your fuckbuddy?" Dr. Gold looked away, and his voice was cold and sharp enough that Belle was sure that she would have felt it stabbing through her chest, had she not been too surprised by his sudden profanity.

"No," she said, pouring as much disgust as was possible to pour into a single syllable. He tilted his head to look at her out of the corner of his eye, and she wanted to believe that she saw hope there, despite the fact that it was so dark, she couldn't see much of anything. "Absolutely not."

"So, a physical relationship with a bit of feelings, then?"

"No." She shook her head. "I don't really like him, but we've been on a few dates, and it wasn't like I was going to explain to my father that I'm just casually dating right now. He already thinks I'm too old to be single."

Dr. Gold chuckled, looking down at his lap. "Your father has interesting ideas about you."

"We got into a fight." She looked away, guilt creeping along her spine. She had come here for him, and now she was unloading all of her problems. Some friend she was.

"What was it about?"

He didn't sound annoyed, and she should have known that he wouldn't be. If there was one thing Dr. Gold hated more than most other things, it was talking about himself. She turned back toward him. It felt safer that way, when she wasn't just looking at the stretch of graves.

"He wanted me to drop out of school and come home. He doesn't think this is what I should be doing with my life, which really means that he still thinks I'm an odd excuse for a daughter." She laughed, a humorless sound, but was cut off when her hand bumped Dr. Gold's. She hadn't realized they'd been drifting closer—or even that she'd removed hers from her pocket—but now their hands had met between their legs. Belle curled her pinky around his.

"You can't expect someone who never had an education to understand why you want to keep having one," he said, settling his other hand on top of hers. He was wearing soft leather gloves, and they were chilly, but Belle felt warmer with them nonetheless. She didn't ask how Dr. Gold knew that her father never had an education—Dr. Gold knew everything.

"I suppose. He said I could have been a nurse or a teacher—like those would have been huge aspirations. What he really meant was that I could have been a wife and a mother, and had a man to lead me by the hand." She dropped her head to his shoulder, pleased when he shifted to allow her more space.

"And you don't want that? A husband? Children?"

She considered the question. "I want to make my own decisions," she said, pulling her other hand out of her pocket to play with his glove and sleeve. "I want to make my own discoveries, lead my own life. And of course I want love, but I don't want marriage just because someone else wants me to have it. I want someone who intrigues me—someone I can know everything about, and still find new reasons to love every day. I want study books, because I love reading, and I don't want anyone to tell me that I'm not reaching my full potential as a woman just because I'm not shadowing a man. I want—are those new cufflinks?"

She raised his hand, pulling his overcoat and jacket sleeves back enough to see the blue fleurs-de-lis. He said nothing, allowing her to tilt his hand this way and that to watch the metal catch the moonlight at different angles.

"You noticed," he said, voice rumbling by her ear. She replaced his hands on his leg, settling her own between them again.

"Well, of course. You always wear plain cufflinks."

"I wore them for you. Special jewelry for a special night."

She felt her ears getting warm, and she was glad that it was too dark to see her face. "So you bought them for tonight?"

"No." He shook his head, his chin brushing the top of her curls, which were still half piled on her head. They had taken damage all night, but it was a mark of Ruby's skill that the general style was still intact. "My son gave them to me."

Belle had not known that he had a son. Perhaps he was estranged, and it was too painful for Dr. Gold to mention, or perhaps he had gone abroad for college and Dr. Gold missed him—

_Or perhaps_, Belle realized, looking around her, _he's dead_.

"Your son Baden," she said, voice catching on the final word. She felt like she was overstepping her boundaries by saying a name he had yet to reveal to her, but Dr. Gold didn't flinch or reprimand. She felt him nod above her, and she twined more of their fingers together.

"Yes. My son, Baden."

Belle closed her eyes, running her fingers along the icy metal. "I'm glad you thought to wear them for me. They're beautiful."

For a moment, he was still, and Belle kept up her ministrations on his cuffs, afraid that stopping would startle him. Her fingers were going numb, and she was having a hard time feeling the metal, but she carried on anyway until he spoke.

"I was on my way to his grave, but—ah—I had to stop." He pulled one hand out of hers to gesture to his knee. "Would you like to come with me now?"

She pulled herself off of him so that she could look at his face, but he was just watching the grass. When she was upright, he flicked a glance at her.

"Is saying 'yes' to wanting to go see a grave polite?" she asked, keeping her voice low and soft.

Dr. Gold chuckled, turning to look at her through a sweep of hair. She wanted to reach out and brush it behind his ear. "It is, if that's the answer for which the asker is looking."

"Then, yes. Of course. I would love to meet your son."

She wasn't sure how he would feel about that statement, but the way he ducked his head to hide from her told her that he was smiling, and that she had said the right thing. He pulled himself up, and she waited until he was steady on his cane before taking his arm, and allowing him to lead her.

Leaving the safety of the bench chased away Belle's bravery, and she clutched at Dr. Gold's arm tightly enough that he might not have been able to save her from zombies even if he'd wanted to. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, leading her across the dark grass.

"Something wrong, dearie?"

It wasn't like she was going to admit that she was scared. She may have trusted Dr. Gold with her life, but her pride was a different story—he would never let it go. She racked her brain for an excuse.

"Were you ignoring me earlier?" she asked, figuring she could feign offense.

He looked taken aback. "When?"

"Before I found you. I called you about a hundred times and you never picked up."

"Ah." He stopped walking, bracing himself on her so that he could use his cane hand to pat his pockets down. She flushed at the idea that he would rather stop moving than let go of her. "Must have left it in the car."

"I see." She followed him as he started walking again, taking a turn around a lifeless fountain, into a large expanse of unmarked grass. "In that case, I forgive you."

He was quiet, leading them to the lone grave in the field. He paused in front of it, head bowed, but they weren't close enough for Belle to get a good look, and she was unwilling to start forward until he was ready.

"I forgive you, too." He sounded brusque, and, by the time Belle realized that he was referring to her original apology, he had moved closer to the tombstone, slipping his arm out of hers. She hovered behind him as he knelt down, using his cane for balance, trying not to make it seem like she thought he was an old cripple who needed her help. He didn't seem to notice, so once he was settled, she knelt down beside him.

His silence gave her time to study the tombstone. It was smooth marble, taller than both of them when they knelt, with a top rounded into an arch. She could tell by the size and quality that Dr. Gold had paid a fortune for this memorial. The top read 'BADEN NIALL GOLD' and then, underneath, '15 JANUARY 1990 – 20 JUNE 2007.' Below that was carved an ornate lion, rearing up on its hind legs and roaring, and under that, the inscription read, 'The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.'

"He would be twenty-three now," Dr. Gold said, voice so low that Belle had to strain to hear him. "He wanted to go back to Scotland, study at the University of Edinburgh. He was always so good at science, and I tried to convince him to study that, but his passion was always in art. He drew that." He reached for the lion carving, tracing its mane with shaking fingers. "Found it on his desk after—well, after."

Following his lead, Belle ran the tips of her fingers along the lion, tracing its nose and down its neck, to its clawed paws. Their hands bumped, and Dr. Gold sighed, ceasing his hand's movement.

"I think he would have liked to meet you, even if you only provided a beautiful subject for his work."

Belle wasn't sure if he noticed what he was saying—he was speaking mostly to the lion, hand flat against where its heart would be. She noticed, though, and she had to bite her tongue to keep her bashful giggle from bursting forth. It was not the time—and she was also not twelve years old.

Not trusting herself to speak yet, she twisted herself around until she was sitting on the marble platform holding the tomb up, back against the headstone. This time, as Dr. Gold tried to join her, he did need her help, and she held his arm while he maneuvered himself with the strength of one leg. Once seated, he stretched his bad knee out, resting the back of his head on the tombstone.

"Dr. Gold?"

"Raphael."

"What?" She knit her eyebrows together, tilting to look at him. He lifted his head enough to look at her face, and he looked the way he did any other time that he'd managed to fluster her.

"My name is Raphael. I think you've earned the right."

Belle wasn't sure how she felt about this. Even before she had met him, she had never heard him called anything but 'Doctor,' whether or not his first name was included. Then again, she was sitting with him on his son's grave, and it was nearing eleven on a Thursday night. Perhaps she had earned the right.

"Okay, Raphael." It didn't feel as strange as she'd thought it would. "Could you—would you maybe—well—"

"Come, dearie, spit it out."

He was watching her now, and she chewed her lip, resolve slipping now that she had his attention. She inhaled deeply—Raphael Gold was not scarier than a graveyard at night. She would be fine.

"Will you tell me about your family?"

"Ah." He leaned his head back, looking up through the gaunt trees to the cloudy, black sky. He shifted just enough so that no parts of their bodies were touching, and Belle felt a bit like he'd taken hold of her heart and squeezed. He wasn't going to answer her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry—"

He raised a hand to silence her. "No, it's all right. I'm just trying to decide where to begin."

She drew her knees up to her chest, then tilted sideways until her head rested on his shoulder. He stiffened, but after a few seconds, relaxed again, and touched his head to the top of hers.

"Why don't you start with how you met your wife?" she suggested.

"Ex-wife," he corrected, almost before she could finish her sentence. "But, I suppose that's as good a place to start as any. I've known Milah my whole life. We grew up together, in Glasgow, and our parents were close. We were forced together as children, and I'm not sure that we ever really liked each other. There were a few years that we only saw each other when our parents got together, since I went to an all-boy's school and she went to an all-girl's—"

"Were you rich?" She had to know—family money would explain Gold's insistence and ability to pay for everything in her life.

He shook his head, though, making no indication that he was annoyed with her for interrupting. "It was fairly common. Anyway, Milah and I didn't see each other until we were about fifteen, and all of my friends started bringing dates everywhere. I, being the same charming person I am now, could get no one to go with me, and so I started bringing Milah. Eventually, everyone just assumed we were a couple, so we just became one."

"How romantic." She pressed her lips together when he cut a glare toward her. She hadn't even meant to interrupt—his voice had lulled her into enough comfort that she spoke without thinking.

"I never said it was, dearie." He tapped her on the nose. "Now, are you going to let me finish the story you asked me to tell?"

Wrinkling her nose, she nodded. "I'll try to keep my interruptions to a minimum."

"Good. As I was saying, we became a couple. We got married right out of high school, since it seemed like the logical thing to do at the time, and then I went into the army."

"You were in the army?" She lifted her head up to look at him.

"For a bit."

"Were you in a war?"

"Of sorts." He shifted his legs around, sliding his good one up, while his other hand strayed to his lame knee. "I got injured, and sent home."

Belle breathed. She had always assumed that his knee was the result of some medical condition, not an injury—though she supposed that was foolish of her. She may not have been able to imagine Dr. Gold doing anything physical enough to injure himself now, but he had been a teenager once. Teenagers injured themselves all the time.

"What happened?"

He was silent, tapping his bad knee. "Another time, mm?"

She wished she could press, but he was already sharing so much, she had to give him any privacy he asked for. She nodded. "Of course. So, you came home. Then what?"

"Well, then I couldn't do much of anything that required moving, so I went to college. Milah was unhappy at my arrival—I'm sure she expected me to die—"

Belle gasped, hands flying to her mouth, and Gold looked down at her, eyebrow quirked with amusement.

"What? Don't believe that anyone could wish for my death?"

"I'm sure plenty of your students wish you would drop dead in time for someone else to give them their final grades," she allowed, trying to keep her voice from being hoarse. She was repressing the urge to squeeze him. "But she was your wife."

"Like I said, we never really liked each other."

"But how can you wish death on a person you've known your whole life?"

Dr. Gold laughed, and before Belle could protest his amusement, he had leaned down to kiss her hair. "You are precious, and naïve. Do you want me to finish my story or not?"

She was sure that he could hear the blood rushing to her face, and she no longer trusted herself to speak. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut, and nodded.

"So, I went to college, and got my degree in English. Milah got a job doing PR, and it seemed that we had reached some sort of stasis. I don't know if we were happy, but we weren't unhappy, and so we continued. Eventually, Milah got pregnant, and we had Bae."

"Baden?" Belle asked.

"Mm. I wanted to name him Baelfire, but Milah put her foot down. Said he would get picked on if we cursed him with that, and I didn't want him to grow up like his father, so I had to agree. But I always called him Bae anyway."

"I like the name Baelfire," she said.

"Well, now we know that your children will have cursed names."

She laughed, and felt his shoulder shake with tiny chuckles. "Okay, so Bae was born. Then?"

"Then, we moved to the states for my masters, and Milah became incredibly depressed. I got my doctorate in a year, and then moved on to a law degree, in the hopes I'd be able to pay back my loans and support my family. Turns out I've got a knack for the law, but Milah never believed in me, and she left when Bae was twelve."

Belle reached forward to take his hand and squeeze it. He squeezed back.

"I didn't mind for me. I mean, of course it was sad to lose my life companion, but I'd been alone for almost a decade even with her there. I was far more upset that Bae would grow up without a mother." He shook his head. "I think she ran off with a man, but I'll never know, because she did a damn good job of disappearing. A few months later, I got hired on that Patriot's case you asked me about—just a contractual dispute—and made enough of a nest egg to start building my own fortune."

He shifted around, and when Belle looked up to see what he was doing, she found that he was looking down at her. "Did you know that I can narrow your address down to three buildings?"

She blinked at the unexpected turn of conversation. "Ah—no? How?" Was he stalking her now?

"Because, my dear, I own all but three apartment buildings in Storybrooke. I also own most of the stores and restaurants."

Which explained a considerable amount. Belle wondered that she hadn't realized it before, what with the way people bent over backwards to please him.

"Bet your wife wasn't pleased when she found out you got rich without her."

At this, he chuckled. "Not at all. I don't know if she ever really knew until recently. I haven't seen her since she left."

"Not even—" Belle paused, remembering the conversation from earlier. "No. She wasn't at the funeral, was she?"

He shook his head, and Belle was afraid that he was about to tell her that he hadn't even let his wife know that their son had died.

"By the time Bae had his accident, she'd been gone for five years. I had no idea how to find her, and I wasn't willing to spend the money on a detective to hunt her down. So, since I had her parents' address, I wrote to them. By the time they got the letter and told her, the funeral was done, and all she could do was call and scream at me."

"That's awful. To not even make yourself available to your own son." Belle shook her head, but Dr. Gold shrugged.

"Screaming at me used to be her favorite pastime. I'm sure she was glad to at least have that."

"So then," she started, struggling to figure out what she wanted to ask. "So, this was the first you've seen her?"

"It was. I know the mayor invited her just to get under my skin. Guess I ought to return the favor somehow."

"The mayor doesn't like you either?" She felt like she was meeting a whole new person—one who owned the town, and had enemies in strange places. How had he hidden these things from her all this time? She fancied herself a good character sleuth—this was ridiculous.

"We have a bit of a long history."

She tried not to consider the implications of his statement, or the fact that it made her cheeks flame with something like jealousy. She didn't realize how long she was quiet, until Dr. Gold looked at her, but then she was saved by a violent gust of wind. Her hands found ways to bury themselves in his side, while she thrust her nose into his shoulder, fearing another gust might break it off.

"Oh, god, I didn't realize how cold it was. You must be freezing. Why aren't you wearing gloves?" He wrapped his arms around her, and it didn't help much.

"I was in a bit of a rush. You may have noticed that it's late." She was muffled by his shoulder, and she could feel his chuckle reverberating around her sinuses.

"Come on. We should go."

Even though he seemed like he wanted to help her up, she had to be the one to stand first, allowing him to use her arm as support on the side without the cane. Even Raphael Gold's pride didn't extend to trying to get up from the ground sans assistance.

She looped her arm through his again when they started walking, clinging to his side as the wind picked up.

"I've got some good herbal teas," he said, tapping out a dull rhythm with his cane. "Would you care to join me for a pot?"

He wasn't looking at her, and for a second, Belle was confused about why he was nervous to ask. Then, it occurred to her that he was not inviting her for tea in his office or his shop—he was inviting her into his own kitchen, in his house, with him. Alone. She flushed so warm, her cheeks started to sting.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she murmured. "And it's getting late. I should just go home."

He was quiet, and she wished she could see his face, but he was looking down just enough that his hair obscured her view. "Of course. You've had a long day."

She nodded, searching desperately for something to say. Instead, she found a reason to scream, and all but leapt into him with the effort it took to stifle it. He froze, raising his cane like a weapon, head twisting around to look for danger.

"What? What's wrong?"

There was another person coming toward them, a tall, square person—Hook had been right, they were going to get mugged, and she was going to die trying to save Dr. Gold, and then Hook was going to find her and kill her. He would never let her live this down. Also she was going to die.

She lowered her voice to the point that she had to speak directly into his ear for him to catch anything. "Nothing, nothing, it's nothing."

He saw the figure as well, making its way right for them, but he didn't seem bothered by it. It was only when Belle made out long hair that she realized why, and relief that it wasn't some murdering rapist almost sent her into a fit of laughter. She held it in, though, having to bite her lip to do so when they paused in front of the woman.

"Milah." Dr. Gold inclined his head, and Belle followed suit.

"Raphael. I see you've brought her to our son's grave."

She eyed Belle, and Belle clenched her teeth together. Armed with all of her new information, how could she not hate Milah a little bit more? She was a hypocrite.

"No." He shook his head, and for a second, Belle was afraid he would tell Milah about her insane search. "I brought her to my son's grave."

He started to walk forward, leaving a glowering Milah in his wake. Belle, however, was determined to have this last word—she wasn't going to let him fight a battle on her own behalf. Before Milah could continue past them, Belle reached a hand out to touch her shoulder, pleased when the woman turned.

"It was so lovely to meet you," she said, and she hoped she sounded earnest. Milah looked confused, but nodded her assent. Belle let her hand drop before she continued. "And by the way—Killian is younger than me."

For once, she understood Gold's glee at destroying the composure of others. Milah's stunned expression could have been carved from glass, and as Belle walked by, she had the satisfaction of knowing that Gold's ex-wife was rooted to the spot.

"What was that?" Dr. Gold murmured once they were out of the cemetery, and out of earshot.

"Oh, nothing." She could no longer keep a triumphant grin from stealing across her face. "Just something I forgot to mention earlier."

Gold chuckled, and, though she could tell he was still confused, placed a hand over hers. "You're so good to an old monster."

"I'm just trying to find your weakness so that I can destroy you," she said, squeezing his arm, pleased that he laughed again at this.

It was definitely time to get rid of Gaston.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks to everyone reading! 3 your support means the worldddd33333_

* * *

Getting rid of Gaston was easier said than done. Over the course of the next week, Belle gave one hundred percent to the effort of doing so, and came out a failure each time. It didn't matter what she did, or when she did it, something always seemed to come up. She didn't even think that Gaston was aware that she was trying to dump him, since, in her zeal to do so, they were spending more time together.

She feared that he was getting the wrong idea about their relationship.

Sometimes, the thwarted attempts were innocuous. Most days, Gaston just didn't let her get enough words into the conversation to be dumped, and then by the time she had her wits about her, he'd be kissing her goodbye and leaving. Another day, he'd walked her to her door, and she managed to get all the words out just as a group of motorcyclists drove by on their way out. He didn't hear, and it was clear that he assumed nothing she said was important, because he just smiled, nodded, and kissed her before leaving.

It was all getting hopeless. The worst had been yesterday, Sunday, when she'd set the goal of getting rid of him before she had to spend another week having awkward lunches with Dr. Gold. They were at the park, because it was an easy place to meet him and have nothing to do but dump him.

"And so, we were sitting on a bench, under this tree, and it was a bit chilly, really nice out," she said. She was sitting across from Hook in a booth at Granny's, having breakfast-for-dinner in an attempt to comfort herself. She needed a break from Gaston.

"This already sounds like a romantic interlude." Hook reached forward and plucked a piece of bacon from her plate.

"I know." She stabbed at her pancake, trying not to imagine it with Gaston's face. "So anyway, we were sitting under this tree, and suddenly, a cat falls onto his head."

"A cat?"

"A cat."

They looked at each other, Belle pressing her lips together while Hook squinted, waiting for the information sink in. After a few seconds, he waved his hand in a circle in front of him. "Please, continue."

"So this cat falls on his head, which is alarming, because cats are usually very graceful, and Gaston picks it up and discovers that its leg is broken."

"Broken cat. Less romantic, still concerned, though."

"So then," she continued. "He tells me that he's allergic to cats, and that I should go get his Epi-pen from the car. I tell him to come with me, because I am, naturally, alarmed by this statement, but he just hands me his keys, because he wants to set the cat's leg first."

Hook's eyes were wide, and his lips were pressed so tightly together, she knew that he was trying not to laugh. He couldn't move them enough to speak, but he nodded for her to continue.

"I ran to get his pen, and when I came back, he was holding the cat, and going into anaphylactic shock. So I stabbed him with it, took the cat, and then drove him to the hospital. He made me take the cat to the shelter as soon as I'd dropped him off."

She watched Hook regain his composure, and it looked to be difficult. After about half a minute of eye-closing and teeth-clenching, he looked back at her. "So, your boyfriend went into anaphylactic shock to save a cat."

"Yes." She sank into the booth. "So I bought him a stuffed dog."

"I understand," he said, and a few snickers escaped. "Can't really dump him right after that."

She shook her head. "There were lots of women flirting with him when they found out he was saving a cat, and I just wanted to pretend to throw a jealous fit, but I couldn't. It was awful."

"It sounds awful," he agreed, but she could tell that he was still putting forth a valiant effort to keep his amusement from spilling out.

"I don't know what to do, Hook. I've tried so hard to dump him. Maybe I'm just destined to marry him." This thought made her so miserable that she dropped her head to the table.

"Hey, now." Despite his ill-concealed laughter, Hook's voice was soft and soothing. He slipped a finger under her forehead to lift it. "We're gonna get you out of this, love. Don't worry. I'll think of a plan."

Belle looked up, and, as she did, caught a glimpse of a black cane. For a second, she remained still, her head a few inches above the table, while Hook's fingers slid down her cheek to rest under her chin. Before he could push her head the rest of the way up, she considered just crawling under the table and staying there until she was sure that Dr. Gold was gone.

Some sixth sense told her that he'd already seen her, however, and so hiding from him was useless. She lifted her face, letting Hook's finger fall, and turned to see him accepting a wad of bills from Granny.

"Did he see me?" Her voice was so quiet, she wasn't even sure that Hook had heard her, but, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him follow her gaze.

"Dunno. Want to make a run for it?"

She did, she really did, but then Dr. Gold sent her a sharp glance, and she knew that this was not the first he was noticing her. Forcing herself to be brave, she smiled, wiggling her fingers in a wave. He didn't wave back, and instead unfolded the roll of cash to count it.

"What's he doing?" she whispered, hoping that Gold couldn't hear her. A normal person wouldn't have been able to, but Gold seemed to have heightened senses, and secret lives. He was probably Batman.

"It's rent day." Hook shrugged.

"Did you know that it was rent day?" She cast another furtive glance at Dr. Gold, who seemed to be upsetting Granny with the fact that he was taking forever to thumb through the bills.

"Of course I didn't know it was rent day. Do I look like I care about Granny's rent?"

Belle pursed her lips, displeased with the way her day was going. At least she hadn't had to see Gaston. She didn't think she could handle it.

"I'm going to go say hello," she said, figuring it best to get the confrontation over with now. If she waited until tomorrow, she would just be taking the coward's way out, and she knew that Dr. Gold wouldn't appreciate it.

A minute later, she was waiting outside for Dr. Gold, huddled into her coat to stave off the wind. Anyone could misinterpret Hook's casual affection, especially someone who hated him as much as Gold did. Since the night in the cemetery, they had somehow been both closer and more on edge, and Belle feared that this might tip the precarious balance they'd achieved.

When he stepped out, Belle felt her cheeks heat. It didn't matter how much time she spent with him—in his overcoat and gloves, he looked almost edible. Belle didn't think she'd ever thought this way about a person she knew from more than a movie screen. He didn't seem to see her, so she stepped forward.

"Raphael."

He looked up, and only the slight clenching of his jaw indicated that he was surprised. "Belle. I thought you'd disappeared."

"I did." She forced a smile, stepping closer, unable to keep her hands from twisting in front of her. "I disappeared out here, to wait for you."

"Well, dearie, here I am." He spread his arms, as if to say 'ta-da,' but he did not look pleased.

She didn't like being called 'dearie.' He was mad at her, and this was his way of pretending that he simply didn't care. She knew better.

She also didn't want to pick a fight, right here, outside of Granny's Diner, while she was supposed to be inside, figuring out how to dump her boyfriend. She needed to say something, though.

"I wanted to tell you," she began, hoping that something would come to her in the second it took her to say the words. "That—" She pressed her lips together, trying to make it look like she wanted to create suspense, rather than that she was trying to think. Dr. Gold watched her, one eyebrow raised, hands crossed over his cane.

"Yes?"

"That my birthday is this week."

His lip twitched, and he looked down, letting out a snort. "And you're looking to get showered with gifts?"

"No, you fool," she said, stepping closer to make it more intimate. "Ruby's decided that I have to have a birthday dinner, even though I didn't really want one, and I wanted to invite you."

He looked up at her then, mouth half-open in a silent response. She had intended to wait until the day of the dinner to invite him, to give him less time to make excuses not to go, but now seemed to be an equally opportune moment. When she smiled at him, he closed his eyes, not opening them until Belle heard three of her own heartbeats, loud and clear.

"You want to invite me to your birthday dinner? With your friends?"

"Of course." She laid a hand on top of his, and he jumped. "Don't tell me you're surprised."

"Wouldn't you prefer a younger crowd?" he asked, not meeting her eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not much fun."

"Raphael." She waited until he was looking at her to continue. "It's my birthday, and I want you there. Besides, I don't have many friends my own age. Mostly, it'll be people you already know, because they're all in the department."

He didn't seem to hear much of what she was saying, but he was now searching her face, like he expected something unpleasant to pop up if he wasn't careful. "You want me there? You're sure?"

She squeezed his hand. "One hundred percent."

He looked down, but she could see that he was smiling now, and she was lightheaded with relief.

"All right. You'll tell me when and where tomorrow, then? At lunch?"

She nodded. "I'll get all the details. And I'll see you tomorrow." She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, letting her hands slide away from his as she pulled away.

"Tomorrow," he repeated, and she had the impression that, had he been wearing a hat, he'd have tipped it to her. Instead, he turned and started away, and Belle was sure that she could see a bounce in his step.

She rushed back inside, sliding into the booth with enough force that she almost hit the wall. Hook raised both eyebrows, and gave a low whistle.

"Well, love, looks like you've got it bad."

"I know," she said, and it was almost a relief to admit this out loud. She wasn't willing to say anything more concrete than that, though, and so instead turned to the more immediate problem. "I really need to get rid of Gaston."

"All right, I am on it." Hook leaned back in the booth, stroking the stubble on his chin. Belle's foot tapped under the table, until his free hand appeared on her knee to still it. "Calm down, we'll figure this out."

"I've invited Dr. Gold to my birthday dinner, which means I have to dump him by then."

"When's that? Friday?"

"Thursday. They have a jazz band at _Blue Moon_ on Thursdays." Ruby had wanted to go somewhere more spirited, but she had allowed Belle the final say in the location of her own birthday dinner.

"Oh god, you're old, too." Hook shook his head, and Belle kicked him under the table. "Okay, okay. Tell me about Gaston again. I need to make sure I have every detail."

Belle sighed. She had the irrational fear that using his name would summon him, as occasionally seemed to be the case with Dr. Gold.

"Well, he's a sports management major, studied biology for a few semesters as an undergrad. He's been coaching teams for awhile, and just decided to go back to school to learn the ins and outs better so that he can start building a fortune in owning. He, like everyone else in the world, hates Dr. Gold, but he likes women, and he's glad that I'm 'his.' He talks a lot, mostly about himself, and he's sort of beefy. Also, he's allergic to cats."

This elicited a snicker from Hook, who tried to cover it with his hand. "So you're not having sex with him, right?"

"Right." She shuddered at the thought.

"Okay, I've determined the problem." He leaned forward, and Belle was almost afraid of what the next words out of his mouth would be.

"Yes?"

"You need to have sex with him."

She groaned. Of course that was what he would say. Hook was always in favor of sex, as he was so keen on reminding her. "Weren't you the one who told me not to have sex with him?"

"That was when I thought it would be better that way. Now, I realize that you have to let him nail you."

He wiggled his eyebrows, but Belle was unwilling to rise to the challenge. Instead, her shoulders slumped.

"Why?"

"Because, Belle, he has to win."

Belle wasn't sure what this meant, and she felt a bit like punching Hook in the face for taking advantage of her unusual surliness to be cryptic. "Win what?"

"The game, obviously. You're a challenge, Belle. As long as you keep spending time with him with your clothes on, the challenge is going to get bigger. This is why he has to nail you, and not vice versa. He has to win, so that the intrigue is gone, and he is free to move on to the next challenge."

Belle stared at him, trying to find some trace of joking-Hook, but he looked serious, for once. She groaned again. "This is ridiculous. I'm not going to sleep with him, Hook."

"Belle, it's not like you're eighteen, fresh out of girlhood and looking for a suitable deflowerer." He leaned forward. "Sometimes, you have to make some sacrifices."

It was logical, and a few weeks ago, Belle might have agreed, but she couldn't now—not after Gold had been so upset over the idea of her having a 'physical' relationship. "No. Not this. There has to be another way."

Hook sighed, but leaned back and began stroking his chin again. After a few seconds, he snapped his fingers. "All right, I've got it. You've got to pretend to have sex with him."

Belle pursed her lips. "Hook, he's a grown man. I think he knows the difference between real sex and pretend sex."

"With all due respect, love, I don't think you have much room to criticize my methods." He grinned at her scowl. "And it's simple enough to pretend to have sex—you'll just have to get him drunk enough to pass out, and then be naked when he wakes up. Easy."

"That sounds so complicated." She wrinkled her nose. "This could get messy in so many different ways. What if he throws up on me?"

Hook huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "You are so stubborn. Fine. Think of a better plan."

Belle did feel a little bad, but she couldn't help a tiny grin at his ire. "All right. Um—oh!" She smacked a hand on the table, and Hook, despite looking like he didn't want her to have any ideas, leaned forward to listen.

"What if I make it seem like we're going to have sex, but then we get interrupted? It'll make him think he achieved something, without me having to do anything."

Hook considered this, resting his elbows onto the table and nodding along with whatever he was thinking. "Yeah, I guess that could work. What would interrupt you?"

"You, of course." She shook her head at his inability to latch onto her plan. "Pretending to be a call from the hospital."

At the mention of this cliché, Hook looked delighted, face overcome with his pirate smile. "From the hospital, eh? And what will I say?"

"That my mother's been in a horrible accident."

Hook looked a little taken aback. "Your mother? You're not going to make up an aunt or something? Seems like bad luck, to me."

"Oh, it's okay." Belle waved a hand. "My mother died when I was five, and I think she'd be pleased to help me get rid of a man I didn't want."

Hook shrugged, unable to argue with this. "Sounds as good a plan as any."

Belle, feeling more in control of the situation than she had in a week, found herself smiling again. "Okay, so I'll do it tomorrow night. We'll go on a date, and then I'll take him back to my place, and text you when we're about to get down to it. You wait a few minutes, and then call. Got it?"

"Got it. So Gaston doesn't know that your mother is dead?"

Belle snorted. "Hook, I doubt Gaston even knows my last name."

If Belle had been paranoid about saying his name before, it was nothing compared to how she would feel after tonight. As though repeating it for the third time had summoned him, she heard his booming voice calling her name as soon as she finished speaking.

She yelped, and Hook looked alarmed, glancing from Belle to the behemoth hulking his way toward her. Once Gaston reached them, the pieces seemed to click together, and his pirate grin was back.

"Hello," Belle said, flashing Gaston a weak smile. Without waiting for an invitation, he scooted next to her in the booth, slinging his hairy arm over her shoulders. She thanked god that Dr. Gold was long gone.

"You must be Gaston," Hook said, smiling like a lion about to play with its food.

"Yeah. Who are you?" Gaston's voice was a low grunt, and he pressed Belle to his side like a rag doll.

"Killian Jones. Old friend of Belle's. Don't worry," he said, probably because Gaston looked ready to squish his head between his massive palms, "I'm much more interested in men than Belle."

Belle was certain that Hook knew how much this would unnerve more than comfort Gaston. She wanted to kick him, but it was difficult when pressed to her boyfriend's side.

"So, what brings you to Granny's?" she asked, trying to put this dinner back together somehow.

"I like to eat here before I go running," he said, turning to her. It was clear that he was going to pretend that Hook no longer existed.

"Oh, that's fascinating." She tried to wriggle out of his grip under the pretext of rediscovering her abandoned meal, but he didn't notice, and just pressed her to him.

"Hey, why don't you come with me tonight? It'll be great, we can start work on toning your calves."

The reasons for this being a terrible idea were forming on Belle's tongue, and she was sure that, if she worked enough big words in there, Gaston would agree—but before she could even begin to speak, Hook was answering.

"That sounds great! Belle would love to go running. She's been feeling a little fat lately—which I can say, because I am her gay friend."

Belle blinked. She didn't understand Hook at all, and she also wished a little bit that Dr. Gold would walk back in and beat everyone with his cane. Instead, all she could do was sit there, and gape like a fish, hoping that Gaston would find the whole situation to be ridiculous, and leave without her.

"Great! Let me get some dinner, and then we can go back to your place and change."

Belle nodded, giving a weak chuckle, and forcing herself to remember that this man next to her had risked his life to save a cat. It was the only possible way she would get through the next two days.

* * *

The next morning, Belle was sure she was going to die. It had gone from the possibility that it had been while she was running, to an actual probability. She couldn't bend her legs enough to put pants on, so she was forced to wear a dress and no stockings, despite the cold front moving in. Ballet flats or flip-flops were the only shoes she could manage, and she wasn't willing to sacrifice her toes, so she chose the flats. Muscles that she didn't even know existed hurt, and it was torture just to walk the ten feet from bedroom to kitchen.

The stairs made her want to cry, and she was glad that she was only on the second floor. Driving, too, was painful, but she managed to get to campus without causing any accidents. From there, it took her twice as long as usual to get to the building, and she had no choice but to wait for the elevator. She had intended to work in her cubicle today, since she wasn't sure where she stood in terms of Dr. Gold, but the pain in her legs had her pushing '4' instead of '3' on the button panel, and soon she was limping into his office.

He had his shirt rolled up to his elbows and his reading glasses on, while he savaged papers with his red pen. He looked up at the sound of her shuffling footsteps, and his entire face frowned.

"What's wrong?" He set his pen down and started to stand up, but Belle waved a hand to indicate that he should sit still.

She wasn't sure that she wanted to tell him about Gaston just yet, so she settled for the barest explanation possible. "Legs. Muscles. Pain."

"I see that," he said, and then he was up again. Belle reached for him to steady herself, but he ignored her, instead going for the chair in front of his desk. She followed him as he dragged it around, both going slowly because of their legs, and plopped herself into it once he let it stand.

It was only when Gold sat, and patted his own lap, that Belle realized he had set the chair to face him. Her forehead creased in confusion.

"What?"

"It's all right, you can use me as a footrest." He patted his lap again, and so, hesitant, Belle started stretching her legs toward him. "But take your shoes off. I don't want any dirt on my pants."

"Could you get them?" she asked, wincing when she reached forward to remove one.

Looking a bit like he had just swallowed an ice cube, he reached forward and took hold of the heel of her shoe, gentling it off her foot. He pulled that leg into his lap, settling her heel between his thighs, before reaching for her other foot and repeating the process.

It was good that he'd thought of this. Her legs felt much better stretched out, and her mind felt much better with her feet on Gold.

"What did you do to yourself, Belle?" he asked, hands fluttering around her feet for a few seconds, before he reached for his pen and papers.

She was going to have to tell him eventually. Keeping secrets had not yet resulted in anything positive. "Gaston decided that I needed to tone my calves, so he dragged me running."

Dr. Gold stilled, pen poised above a sentence. When he spoke, he sounded like he was afraid he would scream if he wasn't careful. "Oh?"

"It was awful. I think I should be the one to decide if I tone my calves, don't you?" Should she tell him about all the breakups? She didn't want to sound desperate.

"I think your calves are fine."

Unable to hide her blush, Belle instead sought to hide her face, and so dived for her purse on the floor. When she resurfaced, she was holding _Blood Meridian_, and her blush had subsided.

"Do you mind if I read?" she asked.

He glanced over, squinting to read the title, and then chuckled. "Ah. Now I see where your story came from."

She pursed her lips. "This is for class. That story came from a place where everyone was writing about bondage, so I decided to write about murder."

He chuckled, a single sound, and turned back to his papers. "Go ahead. I've nothing for you to do."

He turned back to his papers, and she turned to her book, only distracted by the slashing and scribbling of his pen for about a minute before she managed to absorb herself in the text.

It took three chapters for her to become aware of the tickling sensation on her legs, and another one for her to realize that it was something out of the ordinary. She could still hear the angry scratching of Dr. Gold's pen, so she peeked over the top of her book to see what he was doing. He was invested in his task, leaning forward and scrawling notes all over some poor student's pages. Belle moved her book down so she could see the rest of him, and found that his free hand was caressing the skin of her left leg.

Should she tell him? He didn't seem to realize what he was doing, focused as he was on destroying the efforts in front of him. Belle was sure that drawing attention to his fingers would only cause problems, so she stuffed her nose back into her book and tried to distract herself again.

It worked so well that she didn't even notice the hum of delight she let out when his fingertips ghosted higher than her calf, just under her kneecap.

He jolted, and the jerk of his hand caused an angry red slash to appear on the paper before him. Belle, too, jumped, dropping her book into her lap.

"I'm sorry—" they both said, and then they both laughed, turning away from each other. When Gold was looking at her again, she tried a tentative smile, and he returned it.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize—" He gestured to her legs, like he was afraid to complete the sentence. "You should have said something."

"It's okay. It felt nice. I didn't want you to stop."

They watched each other for a few seconds, smiles sliding off of their faces. Belle wished she could think of something witty to say, to dissolve the tension—and maybe get him to continue rubbing her sore legs—but her words were leaving her, replaced by a bundle of nerves.

It was lucky that Dr. Gold was a master wordsmith, and could not be silenced for long.

"Right, well, I suppose that you need something to feel nice after your boyfriend's through with you," he said, and Belle felt that this didn't really help the situation at all, because surely, even he could see the double entendre there.

Of course he saw it. There was a steely glint to his eyes now, a shark's gleam to his grin. Belle's blush was replaced by a severe look, and she reached forward to hit him on the shoulder with her book.

"Hey now, none of that, Miss Blue. I am your professor, and I demand respect."

She hit him again, and he bit his lip, chest rumbling with trapped amusement. "You have offended me, Professor," she said, though she didn't sound offended at all.

"Oh, have I?" He pressed a hand to his heart. "My, my, whatever shall I do?"

"There's only one thing for it." She wiggled back in her chair, scooting so her legs were stretched all the way across his lap, heels resting against the edge of his thigh.

"Do tell, for I fear that I shall perish if I do not receive your pardon." He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, hand still pressed to his heart.

"Foot and leg massage."

He opened one eye, as if to check that she was serious, and then returned to his theatrics. "So be it." He dropped his hands to her feet, running them along the soles.

Belle pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, but as soon as his thumb pressed into the arch of her foot, they flew apart to let forth an 'oh!' of pleasure. Eyes open now, he glanced at her, and she was sure that his shark's grin was fighting to be on his face. He continued rubbing, paying particular attention to her heels and the balls of her feet, and she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. She had to focus most of her energy on not making anymore embarrassing noises.

He continued kneading her feet, switching between them every few minutes, and Belle almost started to doze off when there seemed to be no danger of him stopping. She didn't know how his hands weren't getting tired, but maybe it had something to do with all of the crafty things he did. She couldn't bring herself to care, not when her feet were being subjected to more pleasure than she was sure they had ever experienced. She'd take a foot massage over sex any day.

When his hands slid off of her foot, she let out an involuntary whine, but all he did was move them up to her ankles, starting to press the heels of his hands along her calves. He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Enjoying yourself, dearie?"

It didn't grate against her nerves this time, because, even though he sounded like a predator, she knew it was because he was being playful. His sense of playfulness was a bit like a cat batting a mouse around, but that was okay, because Belle wasn't a mouse.

"I think this is the best thing that's ever happened to me," she said, snuggling down into the chair to give him more leg to work with.

"The massage?"

"Mm."

He let out a huff of laughter. "That's either a great compliment to me, or a horrible insult to your life."

"Not sure which." She stretched her unoccupied leg, surprised when the muscles obeyed her with relatively little complaint. Gold's hands were a godsend. "Thank you, though. My legs were killing me."

When he next spoke, his voice was a low growl, and it slid down Belle's spine to pool somewhere in her belly. "It's my pleasure."

She was grateful that her legs didn't need to hold her up, and also that she had a plan. She couldn't remember what, at that moment, but she hoped that it would mean more of this, and soon.

* * *

The plan was in motion.

Earlier at dinner, Gaston had mentioned that he was impressed she wasn't more sore. Belle had told him that she'd paid for an hour of massage—she didn't mention that she'd paid with a kiss on the cheek. At this, he told her that he would gladly massage her legs. Belle took this as a good sign for the evening.

She had invited him up, and he'd hardly given her a chance to pour him wine—a cheap red that she never intended to actually drink—before he'd attacked with his lips, as she'd expected. She tried to keep Hook updated, but it was hard with Gaston pressing himself all over her, and her having to pretend to be an active participant in this.

They were in her room now, and he was slobbering all over her neck. It felt sort of nice, but in a way that being licked by a dog felt nice. She was flattered, but not aroused. Still, it was preferable to him slobbering over her mouth, giving biting kisses like a vampire who only drank from punctured lips. She didn't relish the idea of waltzing into Gold's office with kiss-burn.

He fumbled for the zipper on her dress, and Belle knew that it was time.

"Oh," she said, trying to sound breathless and sexy. She had never been a good actress, but it seemed that Gaston mostly heard what he wanted to, and so she hoped it would be okay. "Oh, Gaston, this dress—I need to change into something more—comfortable."

His laughter rumbled along her neck, and she leaned away as he nipped at her, making sure he wouldn't leave a mark.

"Hurry up," he said.

"Of course."

She all but sprinted into the bathroom, exchanging her dress for the fuzzy robe hanging on the door while speed-texting Hook to call in five minutes. Before she left, she deleted all of her texts so that there was no chance of Gaston reading them.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Gaston looked like she'd just popped out of a cake. He lunged for her, wrapping his sturdy arms around her tiny waist and crushing her to him. She knew she couldn't go the whole night without at least a few kisses, so she suffered this one, praying that her downstairs neighbors were not home to hear all of the thumping.

"Do you want me to get undressed first?" Gaston asked, flexing his biceps.

This seemed like the perfect plan to Belle, since she figured she would be called to the 'hospital' before her own nudity was required, and she nodded. Without warning, Gaston swept her knees out from under her, and she squeaked as he tossed her onto the bed. She thought she heard a creak, but she couldn't remember because she was too busy getting over her terror of being thrown. By the time she had settled her nerves, and wiggled herself into a more seductive position—she hoped—Gaston only had his shirt off, and was flexing again. She forced herself to keep her eyes on him instead of her phone.

"Fuck it, your robe's easier." He leapt for the bed, and Belle held her ground, praying that Hook would call in the next thirty seconds.

That time, the creak she heard was definitely real. Even Gaston paused, thick eyebrows knitting together. When his gaze strayed to the dip in her robe, however, she knew he had deemed the noise safe, and he dove for her again, tightening his hands around her waist.

Then, without further warning, the bed groaned and collapsed in the middle, just as the phone rang.

* * *

Belle had only managed to stop screaming because Gaston chose to comfort her with his lips and wandering hands. Once she'd gotten him off of her, she'd babbled something about an emergency mattress specialist and her mother being in the hospital, and it seemed to convince Gaston that he should leave. He parted with an apology that he wouldn't be able to see her in the next few days, but an assurance that he would be there on her birthday, and then planted a kiss on her dumbfounded mouth before seeing himself out.

Hook had called five times, and when she called him back, he didn't answer. She looked at the wreckage that used to be her bed, and felt a bubble of hysteria rise in her throat.

She had just found Dr. Gold's number in her contacts, and was getting ready to press send, when there was a knock on the door. Assuming it was Gaston, she froze, hoping he would somehow think she had left, but knew she couldn't pretend for long when the knocking became more persistent. With a sigh, she made her way over to the door, not bothering to adjust her robe, and flung it open.

Hook barreled into her apartment like a battering ram, brandishing a pocket knife. Before Belle could react, he had stormed past her, slamming the door behind him so hard, the frame shook.

"Hook, what are you doing?" she asked, still in too much shock to put any sort of force behind her voice.

"I'm going to kill him. Where is he? He better not have hurt you, Belle, or I swear—"

"Where is who?" she asked, skittering over to him. Realizing that she was still in only her robe and her less-than-sexy lingerie, she wrapped her arms around herself.

"Gaston—holy—what happened?"

Hook looked horrified at the view from her bedroom doorway, and Belle didn't like this. She had expected him to be calm, collected, the jokester—she needed him to be himself.

"We broke the bed."

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, sounding like a manic giggle. "I will gut him, Belle. I will even find Gold, and join forces, and together we will kill him so well, no one will ever find his body."

"What are you on about? He just left, thank god."

Hook turned slowly, and looked at her as though just seeing her. For once, she didn't feel like he was trying to undress her as he raked his gaze up and down, taking in her robe, her ponytail, her lack of sex markings. When he stopped at her face, he looked sheepishly defiant.

"You didn't answer your phone. I thought something happened."

The statement touched her so much, she almost burst into tears. She didn't think Hook would appreciate that, though, so she clenched her jaw until her eyes were under control. She walked over to him and put a hand on his elbow, turning him to face her now-V-shaped bed.

"Something did happen, but not to me."

"So this didn't happen while he was raping you to death?" Hook looked down at her, as if daring her to argue.

"Do I look dead, Hook?"

"Fair point." His shoulders relaxed, and he surveyed the ruins like an appraiser. "So, what did happen?"

"He threw me on the bed, and then it broke when he joined me."

"What, did you get your bed from a dumpster?"

Belle blushed and looked away. "Craig's List."

"Christ, Belle." He rolled his eyes. "You know, mattresses aren't that expensive."

"Tell that to my wallet."

He shook his head in the direction of the ruined bed frame, and then turned to face her instead. Then, the familiar Hook-Look crossed his features, and it was enough to make her pull the robe tighter.

"So, tonight, you'll stay at my place, and then tomorrow, we'll go mattress hunting. I'll bring my truck. You can just wear that."

"No way." She wrinkled her nose. "You have roommates, don't you? I'm not staying in a house full of men like you. That sounds more dangerous than Gaston."

Hook pressed a hand to his heart. "I'm hurt, love. You know I would let no harm come to you."

"And you're poor, too. You can't possibly have a spare bed."

"You'd sleep in mine, of course." He winked.

"No, thank you. I'll sleep on my couch." She almost considered calling Dr. Gold as soon as Hook left, but figured that telling him that her bed was broken and she needed a place to stay would be crossing into dangerous territory.

"Fine." Hook reached for her, and she thought he was going to do something she'd have to slap away, but instead, he just pulled her into a rough hug.

"I'm glad you weren't raped. I really wasn't looking forward to searching out your boy's tiny penis so that I could cut it off."

Belle rolled her eyes, squeezing him around the middle. "Me, too. I'll call you when I'm off work tomorrow?"

"I'll be ready."

She gave him one last hug, and then set about to make up her uncomfortable, questionably-stained couch.

* * *

Dinnertime the next day found Belle and Hook lying on a bare mattress, side-by-side, being addressed as husband and wife by the middle-aged salesman guiding them around Sears. Belle was doing her best to dispel this notion, insisting that she only wanted a twin-bed, but the man kept winking at Hook and trying to push the queen size. She should have brought Ruby, but Ruby didn't have a truck.

Hook, however, had taken to holding her hand, and after awhile, she couldn't be bothered to tell him off.

"We like things hard," Hook had said when the man asked about their mattress preference. Belle's nostrils flared.

"I like medium to light firmness, actually."

The mattress they were lying on now was thousands of times more comfortable than the lumpy plank she'd been sleeping on for the past month, and Hook was right—it wasn't that expensive. It was even on sale.

"What do you think, Mrs. Jones?" he asked, bouncing a bit. "Is it a keeper?"

"I think that you should stop pretending we're married." She nestled down into the provided pillows, trying to get a feel for it.

"But it's such fun. Besides, if we don't pretend, the salesman might feel you up, and then I'd have to cut off his hand."

"Why are you so violent, all of a sudden? I can take care of myself, you know." She turned so her back was facing him, testing the mattress on that side. Seconds later, he had spooned up behind her, cradling her waist in his arm.

"Maybe I just like you."

Belle was preparing to fend him off again when a familiar voice wafted over, and she groaned.

"I don't want a discount, boy—I want an appliance that works. Is that too much to ask of an appliance store?"

The voice was unmistakably Dr. Gold's, and she cursed herself for not considering that he would be here. At lunch, he had mentioned that his oven was on the fritz, but she hadn't expected him to shop in the same stores she did. She didn't take into account how small Storybrooke was, and how limited his options.

"Or maybe, I saw Gold, and found that I still hated him."

Belle all but growled, but before she could get out of Hook's grasp, Dr. Gold's cane was thundering in their direction. Not thinking, she instead dove for the cover of Hook's jacket, hoping Gold wouldn't see her.

"Don't bother, dearie," came his cutting voice as he stormed by. "I already saw your face."

She closed her eyes, and counted to ten. When she was sure that she was not going to cry—because she hadn't yet, not even in the face of a broken bed, a terrible night's sleep, and the fact that she still had a boyfriend—she opened her eyes and punched Hook in the chest.

"Ouch! What was that for?"

"You—" she began, punctuating each word with her fist, "are—the—worst—friend—ever." She punched him once more for good measure, and then shied away, giving him space to rub his sore sternum. "I thought you wanted to help me."

"I do, really," he said, sounding pained. "I just also want to sabotage Gold a little bit."

"Well, you can't have both," she said, sitting up and folding her arms. Somewhere off in the corner, their salesman was hovering.

"Of course I can have both." Hook struggled to a sitting position. "I just have to help you more than I hurt him. It's simple."

"No." She shook her head. "I need you to choose. Either you want my trust, or you don't. I won't think less of you if you choose Dr. Gold, but I need you to make that choice. Right now."

Hook looked like he was wrestling with himself, so Belle sighed.

"Okay, fine, can you at least tell me what he did?"

"No, wait, Belle." He reached for her arm and squeezed it. "Of course I want your trust. You're the only female friend I've ever had, and you're something special."

Belle flopped back against the bed. It was a relief to not have to deal with Hook leaving her in a mattress store, and she even decided to hug him when he flopped next to her.

"You want to run after him, don't you?" he asked.

He barely waited for her to nod before he was hoisting her up and out of the bed, taking her hand and dragging her off in the direction they'd last seen Gold.

"So, why do you hate him so much?" she asked, pulling her hand out of his.

"Because he's a cranky old jerk."

"Killian."

It was amazing the power his real name had. He turned to glare at her, and then sighed. "Fine. When I was a teenager, I used to egg his house."

Belle stopped walking for a second, letting this sink in. "So, wait. You have a vendetta because you used to prank him?"

"Let me finish the story, yeah?" He beckoned her forward, and she hurried to keep up.

"Sorry, sorry. Go ahead."

"Anyway, I used to egg his house, because he's always been a total tool, and he deserved it. Then one day, when I was twenty, I'd had a few beers and I went driving with a couple of friends. I was still under the legal limit, so it wasn't technically a DUI, and I guess it was sort of deliberate on my part, but I crashed my car through his garage."

"So you are entirely at fault in this war," Belle said, folding her arms.

"Would you just listen?"

She nodded, and he waved his hand as if to thank her.

"So after, he took me to court, and sued me for everything I am. My parents paid his damages, and half the charges, but they refused to keep me on as a dependent after that. They cut me off, kicked me out. I haven't seem them since, and I still write monthly checks to Gold." He turned to Belle, brows drawn together. "He ruined my life, Belle."

Belle was sympathetic, but only a little bit. She wanted to say that Hook had ruined his own life, but instead, she just laid a hand on his wrist. "I'm sorry. Did you see where he went?"

With a sigh, Hook stopped and looked around. "No, sorry, my Gold-senses aren't tingling. Maybe the doorman will know."

The greeter at the door did know. He had, in fact, seen Gold storm out, and he knew for a fact that it was Gold because the man was his landlord. He was also almost certain that he had seen him drive off in his Cadillac, but he assured Belle that it was better off if she never found him. Instead of rebuking him for his insensitivity, she thanked him for his trouble, feeling like her insides were crumbling. Having no more protest in her, she allowed Hook to lead her inside and pretend to be her husband for the rest of their sales experience.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks to everyone taking the time to read/comment :D 3333333_

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While Belle had tried to do the brave thing and confront Gold, it seemed that he was taking the coward's way out. He was not in his office all Wednesday, and at lunch time, she ended up curled in the backseat of her car, snuffling into her pea coat and trying not to ruin her eyeliner. He was just as absent on Thursday, but since it was her birthday, she refused to spend lunch crying.

What she wanted to do was hunt him down, but she had already run after him so many times, she wasn't sure she had it in her right now. Besides, she was sure that he was making himself even more scarce than he had the night she'd tracked him down in the cemetery, since now he knew that she would, and could, find him. She could have interrupted his class, but then what? Was she going to leap into his arms again, and tell him that she was sorry for all of the things he'd seen out of context?

Instead, she spent Wednesday and Thursday alone, with only Jefferson and his teasing for company. Even the fact that it was her birthday could not cheer her up, and only the fact that Gaston called to say he would drive her home gave her hope, because it meant that she could get trashed and not worry about the consequences.

She left school early that day, as she'd promised Ruby she would, and met her and Mary Margaret at her doorstep. Ruby had attempted to coerce her friends into buying sluttier dresses than they would ever have bought on their own, but Belle had managed to reason with her that they needed to be at least a little modest in a jazz club. She'd ended up agreeing to a black dress with an A-line skirt just above the knee, and a plunging neckline. As Ruby's best friend, Mary Margaret had not gotten off so easily, and had been bullied into purchasing a shimmering purple tube.

Ruby also seemed immune to the cold, and insisted that they all be as well. She'd allowed Belle pantyhose, but no jacket, and forced her into black stilettos instead of boots. This was not going to be good once Belle was as drunk as she planned to be, but Gaston was strong enough to carry her, if need be, so she didn't worry.

She let Ruby do her makeup, too, not having the energy or motivation to get dolled up on her own. As such, she'd ended up with eyelids that were smoky and black at the edges, and sparkly everywhere else. She couldn't bring herself to care.

Both Mary Margaret and Ruby had tried to coax whatever was bothering her out, but she had evaded all of their questions, giving non-committal responses about being almost thirty. Ruby tried to cheer her up by telling her that she had a surprise for her, and Belle pretended to be excited.

When they arrived at the restaurant, almost everyone had arrived. They were standing in disjointed clusters around the door, eyeing each other like they thought they might be in the same party, but weren't sure enough to say anything. There was Dr. Hopper, standing with Jefferson; Gaston standing with his friend, Victor; and then Hook hovering between the two groups, alone.

To appease social norms, she should have leapt into Gaston's arms instead of Hook's, but she found it much easier to pretend that she hadn't seen her boyfriend. Hook was, after all, the only person there who understood the extent of her current sadness, and therefore the only person who could provide adequate comfort. Also, she was freezing, and Hook seemed warmer.

"Happy birthday, love," he said, voice booming out more than necessary. She could only assume that this was to annoy Gaston.

"Thanks, Hook."

His ploy must have worked, because soon Gaston was looming over both of them, giving Belle an eyeful of his chest hair through his v-neck.

"Oh, Gaston!" She hoped he was thick enough to mistake her forced brightness for real enthusiasm, as she shifted from one man's arms to the other.

"Happy birthday." He didn't kiss her, for which she was grateful, but he did mash her to his side. She wished she was at home, tucked into her new bed with a stack of books, movies, and cupcakes.

"Thanks." She peeked around him at his silent friend, and smiled her greeting. "Nice to see you, Victor."

"Oh, yeah, thanks. Happy birthday, by the way. You look nice." His eyes, however, were focused on Ruby, and Belle frowned. She had thought he was trying for Mary Margaret.

As soon as she turned to share a meaningful facial expression with Hook, Ruby started up a loud repetition of her name. Belle considered ignoring it, just to see how far the other woman would go to get her attention, but this was answered for her sooner than she could make the decision. Ruby's fingers tightened around her forearm, yanking her out of Gaston's grasp.

"What, what?" she asked, allowing herself to be tugged.

Ruby thrust a red fingernail forward, grinning. "Your surprise!"

For a fleeting second, Belle thought it might have been Dr. Gold, but who she saw when she followed the direction of her finger ended up being almost as good. Two women were walking toward them, one petite and brunette, and the other petite and dark. Belle didn't know the brunette well, and didn't much care that she was there, but the other woman did much to soothe her upset over Dr. Gold's absence.

"Mulan!" Though she knew that Mulan hated physical affection, she couldn't help rushing over to wrap her arms around her shoulders and squeeze.

"Hey, Belle," she said, voice quiet as always. She patted her on the shoulder blade with a stiff hand, until Belle released her. Mulan was a difficult person to get along with, but she and Belle had become fast friends in undergrad. They'd both stayed in D.C., sometimes the only stable thing in each other's lives. Aurora was Mulan's stepsister, and she was a kindergarten teacher. Until recently, she'd been engaged, but her betrothed had left her.

"And Aurora," Belle said, figuring she ought to hug her as well. When she stepped back so that she could actually see their faces, she collided with Hook, who had snuck up behind her. "Ouch—warn me next time, would you?"

Hook wasn't paying attention to her, however, and extended his hand to Aurora without so much as a glance in Belle's direction. "Hello, love. You look delicious."

Aurora's eyes widened, and she jerked away from Hook's outstretched hand. "I beg your pardon?" Next to her, Mulan was all but growling, teeth bared at Hook like an overprotective guard dog.

"Maybe we should go inside?" Belle suggested, looking at Ruby to make sure this was okay. Ruby nodded, beckoning. She was glad to be out of the cold, even though she had almost stopped noticing it, since her arms and legs were numb.

Once inside, she caught up with Ruby, giving her a hug from behind. Her gift had gone a long way toward making this night a good one.

"How did you know?" she asked.

Ruby shrugged, looking smug. "Let's just say I've got a knack for finding things. Like a sixth sense."

She knew that that was all she would get out of her, so she just hugged her again and thanked her.

They were led to a table for ten, and Belle's sour mood returned as soon as she saw all of the chairs full. She allowed herself to be shuffled around, and ended up seated between Gaston and Hook, which couldn't end well, but she was across from Mulan, so she could ignore them. Everyone sat about where she expected them to, except Dr. Hopper and Jefferson, who she'd assumed would sit near Mary Margaret. Instead, Hopper was next to Hook, and Jefferson was across from him.

It was noisier inside than Belle expected, which meant that it would be easier for her to ignore Gaston. There was a stage in the front, set up for a band. The live music was scheduled to begin at 8:30, and for now, the room was filled with Frank Sinatra while people tinkered around on the set. She must have been slumping in her seat, because Hook's arm soon found its way around her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze while she flipped the menu open.

"Bluebell!"

She looked up at Jefferson's nickname for her, noting the way that Hook was considering this moniker, as though he might steal it. She didn't want to deal with anyone else calling her that.

"Yes, Jefferson?"

From under his jacket, he produced a shiny silver tiara, handing it toward her with a flourish of his wrist. "It was too cold to give you outside, but now everyone will know it's your birthday."

"Lovely!" Hook said, which was good, because there was a lump in Belle's throat that was keeping her from speaking. He accepted it with his free hand, settling it over her straightened hair as best he could.

"Thank you," she managed when he'd finished, giving Jefferson as big a smile as she could muster.

"I helped pick it out," Dr. Hopper said, smiling around Hook. "Happy birthday, Belle. It's so great to have you around."

"Me, too!" Mary Margaret chirped. "We had an English department shopping spree at Claire's."

Belle laughed, and somehow, the fact that the tiara was from Claire's made it that much more special. She had almost forgotten about Gaston when he slapped a long, thin box in front of her. It was covered in striped paper and had professional ribbon, and she was sure that he had not wrapped it himself.

"Happy birthday," he said, looking like he wanted to glower. Even though it was the first thing she'd opened for her birthday—other than the package that had arrived from her father last week—she couldn't help but feel like the gift had just put a damper on the night.

"Thanks." She was not surprised to see chocolates when she opened it—Gaston didn't know her well enough to get her anything else—and she forced a smile, repeating her thanks. "I love chocolate."

He looked pleased, though even Victor was looking at him like he wasn't quite sure what to do with him, and Belle had to bite her lip to keep her laughter in. So as not to say anything she would regret, she turned to Mulan.

"Birthday shot?"

Mulan didn't drink much, and Belle knew she would say no, but Mulan was the best sober person she knew. She had the feeling that the other woman liked being around all of her drunk friends. Where Belle liked taking care of people, Mulan liked protecting them, even if this meant shadowing their stumbles, and making sure no one scraped a knee.

"I'll buy your first round, since I didn't bring you anything," she said, giving Belle a small smile.

"Ooh, Mary Margaret and I need shots, too," Ruby said. She turned toward Victor and bit her lip. Belle didn't hear what either said, but it seemed that Victor had given in to Ruby's cajoling without much protest.

"Me, too," Hook said. He tapped his fingers against Belle's shoulder, either not noticing that Gaston kept glaring at his hand, or pretending not to notice. He kept glancing behind him, like he was expecting something to attack.

The band came on then, tapping the microphone to test it before introducing themselves as The Biloxi Boys, and starting up an instrumental.

When the waiter came by, Belle ordered a glass of water, a sex on the beach, and a shot of whatever their specialty was, pointing out each person that wanted one. When he returned, it was with four shots of bourbon. Belle hated bourbon, but she had her water to chase it and her friends cheering her on, so she downed it in synch with everyone else.

Hook smacked his lips together, and sighed. "God, I love bourbon."

Belle turned to tell him how much she did not love bourbon, but found that he was watching the space behind him with single-minded focus now. She pulled his empty glass out of his hand, and set it on the table, deciding to ignore his odd behavior and pay attention to the friends that had come so far to visit her. Gaston was engaged in a one-sided conversation with Mary Margaret, who was too polite to ignore him, which meant that Belle was off the hook, at least for now.

The waiter brought Belle a second shot, his birthday present to her, and joined in everyone's chanted encouragements until she downed it, and then took their appetizer order. When the waiter left, Hook settled back around her, still looking behind him every few seconds.

"What's going on with you?" Belle asked, lowering her voice.

"Nothing, love." He squeezed her shoulders. "You think I can get Aurora's phone number?"

Belle raised an eyebrow. "I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" She gestured to Aurora, sitting across from Hook. He shrugged, looking disinterested again, and reached for his beer. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Never better. And you? How are you holding up?"

She considered the question. The bourbon was making her a little loose-tongued, but she hadn't had enough to affect her mood. Pretending that she wasn't sad was making it easier to enjoy herself, as was Mulan's stoic presence across from her, but deep down, she knew that it was taking more energy than she'd care to admit to keep some semblance of a smile on her face.

"The liquor helps," she said, not wanting to say anything lest Gaston choose that moment to pay attention to her. It didn't matter, though, because Hook was again looking elsewhere. Belle poked him in the side, and he jumped, nearly upsetting her tiara with his flapping hand. "Seriously, what is wrong with you today? You're all twitchy."

"Nothing." He squeezed her again. "I just want to make sure your night's perfect, that's all. I know you have some less than desirable company." He tore his gaze away from the door long enough to wiggle his eyebrows toward Gaston.

"Well, then pay attention to me," she said, feeling like a child as soon as the words left her mouth. Hook snorted, twisting around so that he could stare at her, arm dropping in the process.

"There, is that better?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, thank you. You're sure you're okay?"

"I'm perfect. Are you sure?"

She glanced over at Gaston, assured herself that he was engaged in whatever he was saying to poor Mary Margaret, and then drooped. "I haven't seen him in two days, Hook. He's been avoiding me."

"Well, you were in bed with another man."

She kicked him under the table. "That was your fault!"

He grinned. "I know, I know. Either way, though, it's his loss—especially tonight. You look like all of my porn fantasies."

"Um, thank you?" she said, pursing her lips. He wiggled his eyebrows, and then started to edge away from her. She wasn't even going to begin to figure out what he was doing now, so she just sighed and reached for her drink.

"I'll be right back, okay?" he said, and then he bolted from the chair.

She blinked after him, baffled by his sudden skittishness, but chalked it up to him not handling his liquor well, and turned to Mulan. Mulan, however, was looking above Belle's head, eyes narrowed.

Before Belle could turn, she heard a voice that sent a jolt of heat down her neck.

"Sorry I'm late, dearie. I got held up."

Belle's mouth hung in a tiny 'o,' which Dr. Gold chose to ignore as he folded himself into Hook's vacated chair. A glance told her that Hook had been there the whole time, and had just moved himself and his beer to the head of the table. He winked, and Belle turned back to Dr. Gold. He had a jaunty, confident grin, but his eyes kept flitting around, like they were too nervous to settle anywhere.

She didn't know what to do with her face, until Gold reached with a finger and pushed her chin up to close the tiny gap in her lips.

"It's not polite to stare, dear."

Spell shattered, she threw her arms around him, having to make a real effort not to throw herself into his lap.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered into his hair, over and over. He stroked hers, and she became aware of every eye at the table focused on them. She didn't care.

"Me, too," he whispered back. "I had no right to be angry. Now, is this your boyfriend? Because I'm going to kill him." His voice was silky and dangerous, sliding down her neck like warm caramel. She laughed.

"Behave."

She pulled away from him, trying not to let her arms linger too much around his shoulders, lest anyone get the wrong idea. Everyone who knew Gold was trying to disguise their horror—helped along by his well-placed glares—except for Dr. Hopper and Hook. Mulan was eyeing him with distrust, and did not back down no matter how much he looked her way, and Belle made a mental note to explain that it wasn't him, specifically, that Mulan was against. Aurora looked neutral, and she couldn't see Victor to assess his expression.

Belle couldn't look at Gaston, not while the tension at the table was thick enough to touch, so she shot a pleading look at Hook, trying to have a conversation with just her eyebrows and pupils. He wiggled his eyebrows in acknowledgment, and then turned and proceeded to hit on Aurora mercilessly. Everyone's discomfort dissolved—except for Mulan, and Jefferson, who was now in between Hook and his target—and Belle relaxed.

Deciding that it was best to get the introductions over with, Belle started with Mulan, who refused to shake Gold's offered hand, so Belle tried to cover this up by babbling about how she and Mulan had been friends for years. At least Gold looked more amused than offended by Mulan's distinct lack of tact.

She couldn't put off talking to Gaston forever, though, and she knew that, if she didn't guide the introduction, Gold would take it upon himself to do so, and that couldn't possibly end well. Steeling herself, she turned to Gaston.

"Gaston, this is Dr. Gold. Dr. Gold, Gaston."

Dr. Gold did not hold his hand out to shake, and it wouldn't have occurred to Gaston to do so. They stared each other down, Gaston's face scrunched in irritation, while Gold was the picture of blandness. Belle reminded herself that it would only be awkward if she let it be awkward, so she hitched a smile to her face, and prayed that Mary Margaret would save her while Ruby was busy chatting up Victor.

"I'm her boyfriend," Gaston said, and Belle tried to remember her convictions about awkwardness.

"Congratulations," Dr. Gold said, his voice making Belle shiver. Gaston's biceps tensed.

The two men were as different as night and day, and yet Belle knew without a doubt that both were preparing for a fight. If Gaston was a lion, roaring out his rage, then Gold was a snake, slithering around in the shadows while he waited for the perfect moment to strike. Then there was Belle, stuck in the middle, the gazelle that each predator wanted to eat.

"Well, does anyone know what they're ordering?" Belle asked, because it was the only safe topic she could come up with in time.

"I was thinking a steak," Mulan said, watching only Belle now, like she had given up on deciding which man to glare at.

"I'd like a scotch," Gold said, as though he were in a private conversation with Belle, rather than answering a question she'd posed to the table.

"For dinner?" she asked, reaching for her own drink.

"Depends on how much I hate everyone by the time it comes to order." He eyed her drink, lip curling up. "What is that?"

Belle couldn't help that she lowered her voice so that no one else would hear, or that she pointed her knees toward him like they were alone. "Sex on the beach. Do you want to taste?" She raised the glass to him, all but fluttering her lashes without actually fluttering them. What was she doing?

Gold was wearing his shark's grin, watching her like he was ready to pounce. "Maybe later."

Gaston elbowed her in the shoulder, and she jumped, swiveling around to face him. "Hmm?" she asked, taking a gulp of her drink. She was glad the restaurant lighting was dim, so that Gaston couldn't see that she was flushed.

"So, did you get a new bed? You know, after we broke yours?"

She couldn't tell if Gaston was asking because he was curious, or because he wanted to upset Gold. She thought it might have been the latter, but he looked natural, and she didn't think he was that skilled at acting. Next to her, Gold tensed, so she poked his foot with her toe in an attempt to convey that she would explain later. He didn't relax.

"Mmhmm. I got a twin, in the hopes that it might be too small to collapse on itself." She took another gulp of her drink, and with the bourbon starting to set in, she was feeling good and fuzzy.

"I don't really fit in a twin bed," Gaston said, and Belle could feel Gold's knuckles as he curled his hand around the head of his cane.

"Well, it's not your bed," Belle pointed out, finishing off her drink. If she was going to pick this fight with Gaston, she needed the buzz.

"You'll stay at my place tonight, then."

Belle felt a prickle of anger at the nape of her neck, and her ears burned. He couldn't just tell her where she was sleeping. She wasn't his pet, and she was about to tell him so when the waiter arrived to take their order, so all she managed was an, "I think I'd like to sleep in my new bed, actually."

Once he'd gone around the whole table, Belle tried to turn to Gold, but Gaston grabbed her upper arm.

"Yes?" she asked, sipping at her water and wishing it had alcohol in it.

"I'm bored. Why are you ignoring me?"

She tried to pry her arm out of his, but he just tightened his fingers. With a sigh, she let her arm go limp, and he loosened his hold enough for her to wriggle out of it.

"I'm not ignoring you, Gaston. I'm dividing my attention between all of my guests."

"No, you're talking to them." He flapped a hand toward Gold and Hook. "And making me sit here and talk to her." He pointed to Mary Margaret, who was watching the exchange with her mouth in a flat line.

"What do you care?" she asked, swiveling to face him, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could realize that they were doing so. "You never let anyone else say anything. You just want to talk to a wall—with breasts."

Unlike the other men at the table, Gaston did not have a way with words, and it seemed that he could not find any to respond with. Instead, his nostrils flared, and fists clenched at his side.

"What the hell are you saying?" he asked, and it was only the live music that kept other tables from hearing him.

"I'm saying that you never pay attention to me, either." She folded her arms before he could grab for them again, scooting her chair back—and feeling like the worst person ever when she bumped Dr. Gold's knee, and felt him jerk away. Before she could turn and apologize, she felt his hand on the small of her back, like he was guiding her forward.

"I pay attention to you all the time," Gaston insisted. "I paid attention to you the other day."

She assumed the look he gave her was supposed to imply that he was talking about Monday night, when he had savaged her neck with his tongue. She tried not to shudder.

"You never pay attention to me. You never ask me any questions. You don't know anything about me."

"Of course I know shit about you," he said, leaning forward.

She held her ground. "Oh, do you? Okay, let's test it. What's my last name?" He didn't answer, and Belle shut her eyes. "What color are my eyes? I'll give you a hint—it's the same as my last name."

"Brown!" He snapped his fingers. "It's brown. I knew it. I was about to say that."

"Blue," Mary Margaret said, and Belle jumped, opening her eyes.

"It's Blue," Ruby finished.

Belle had almost forgotten that anyone else was there—Bourbon gave her tunnel vision, it seemed—but she found herself smiling when she realized that everyone at the table was glaring at Gaston. The only exceptions were Victor—who had fallen mysteriously deaf—and Dr. Gold, who was looking forward while he drummed his fingers absently against the small of her back.

"Oh, yeah, I knew that," he said, gesturing at her face.

She leaned away, and Gold's hand slid until his palm was flat against her back. It was more comforting than any drink. "No, you didn't. You don't know me at all. You don't know my favorite book, my favorite author, my favorite movie, my favorite band, my favorite food. You don't know how I like my popcorn, or how I drink my coffee, or how well I handle my liquor—"

"Hey," Gaston said, leaning toward her again. "I know exactly how well you handle your liquor, and you suck at it."

She threw her hands up, almost hitting the waiter as he came to set down Dr. Gold's scotch. "You know what? I give up. It is my birthday, and I am going to enjoy myself." She reached for the scotch, knocking Gold's hand out of the way.

"Oh, yes, of course, I ordered that for you," he murmured, pursing his lips. She took a sip, and it burned going down, but it was somehow less painful than listening to her boyfriend speak.

"Come on, Belle," Gaston said, taking the drink out of her hand and all but throwing it back to Gold. "This is stupid. Let's get out of here—the music sucks anyway."

Belle could do nothing for a second but squeak in anger and frustration. When she found her words, her voice was high-pitched, and would have been a shriek, were it louder. "It's my birthday, Gaston. This is my birthday party, and I decided where it was going to be, because I like jazz, and I thought it would be fun, and you can leave if you don't think so."

Gaston looked dumbstruck, knitting his thick eyebrows together. Behind her, she felt Dr. Gold lean forward, until his lips were by her ear.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked.

She shivered against his hand, anger evaporating to be replaced by something more like the Bourbon buzz. "Yes, I would."

She stood up, shoving her chair in as though it had been the one to wrong her, while Gaston—and everyone else at the table that she had, again, forgotten about—stared at her. Gold stood up next, and his hand found her back again, pressing his fingers to indicate that she should start.

"Wait." Gaston grabbed for her again. She was almost afraid they would start tugging, focused only on their desire to beat each other, and not the fact that she was attached to her arms.

"What?"

"Belle. Come on. Would you really rather spend your night with this guy?"

Belle blinked, and then frowned. "Yes. Absolutely. No hesitation. Don't even need to think about it."

Gold's fingers flexed on her back, and she didn't turn to look at him. She knew he would be trying to intimidate Gaston with his evil stare, and if she didn't see it, then she wouldn't have to scold him for it.

"Are you serious, Belle?"

"Quite." With that, she wrenched her arm out of his, and half-skittered toward the dance floor in her haste to not give Gaston the chance to respond.

Dr. Gold's hand was tight on her waist, and she found herself giddy with delight at his possessiveness—until she realized that it was because he hadn't brought his cane, and he was using her for balance. She slipped her arm around his back to steady him more.

"Your leg—will you be all right?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual so that he wouldn't be offended by her question.

Instead of answering, he maneuvered them around a few middle-aged couples on the dance floor, selecting a shadowy corner space near the wall. "Did you just dump your boyfriend?"

"God, I hope so." She moved her hand to his shoulder, and rested the fingers of her other hand in his.

"Oh?" He didn't exactly pull her toward him, but he pressed his palm against her back, so she stepped closer. In her heels, she was as tall as he was.

"I've been trying to for at least a week."

His fingers dug into her hip, but his face remained impassive. "Have you?" She nodded. "And the broken bed?"

"That's probably a story that you don't want to hear," she said, trying not to avert her eyes. If she acted suspicious, he would know there was something to be suspicious about.

Of course, he would know anyway, because Dr. Gold knew everything, and she shouldn't have been surprised to see the glint in his eyes. "I'm sure I do want to hear it."

"I thought we were dancing?" she asked, nudging his good knee with hers.

He inclined his head, like he was bowing to her. "My apologies, dear. Can you follow my lead?"

Belle scoffed. "Of course I can follow your lead."

Seeming to take this as some sort of challenge, he began a much more complicated step than she was prepared for, matching the music's tempo better than she had anticipated. From many hours spent on the internet, attempting to learn how to dance to jazz, Belle recognized it.

"I didn't know you could do the Charleston," she said, stumbling as she tried to keep up, and not much caring if she looked foolish. He had his arm around her, and his hand was closed around hers, and she'd have been happy standing still.

"I am a man of many secrets." He looked at her with narrowed eyes, raising one eyebrow like James Bond. She pressed her lips together.

"'Many' is an understatement." She glanced down, stumbling again, and then found Gold's fingers under her chin, tilting it up.

"Don't look at your feet. You'll trip." He took his time dragging his fingers away from her neck, and back to her hand. "And I want to be able to see your eyes."

She bit her cheek to keep her smile from looking goofy. "Well, I can't argue with that."

"I should hope not." He pulled her even closer, so that their chests were only about an inch apart. "Now, I believe you owe me a story about a broken bed."

"Fine. I suppose you deserve it, for helping me out of a bad relationship."

"Oh, it was my pleasure." His grip on her tightened.

"Wait, first, I have a question."

His steps slowed into something more manageable, but Belle couldn't be bothered to try and identify it this time. "That's not how deals work, darling. Equal trade."

She was darling now. She pressed her lips together, and inched closer to him, until their fronts were just touching. His mouth tightened—a success, then.

"Yes, but I'm the one in possession of the information you want, and since we've no magical contract or anything to hold me to the deal, I can hold it over your head as long as I choose."

She wiggled her eyebrows, and he looked a bit like a cat who'd just been given a ball of yarn. He moved his arm so that he was holding her against him, instead of just holding her in place.

"You have a point. Ask away, then."

Her question, however, was more serious than the rest of their conversation had been, so she schooled her expression to reflect this. His eyes flicked down to her no-longer-smiling mouth, and when he looked back at her, his forehead was creased.

"What is it?"

"I didn't think you would come tonight."

His face smoothed, but he was now looking somewhere to her left, while she tilted her face around to try and recapture his gaze. He was having none of it. "Well, here I am, dear."

"Why? You've been avoiding me all week."

His eyes strayed toward her again, but as soon as she met them, they were gone.

"Well." He flexed his fingers on her back and in her hand, and she remained quiet, waiting for him to gather his resolve. "I wasn't going to. I thought it might be best if we only saw each other professionally."

"And then what happened?" She forced herself to ignore the crushing guilt that had snuck its way into her chest. He had obviously changed his mind—he was here, and they were dancing.

"Jones came to my house."

If Belle had been drinking anything, it would have been sprayed everywhere. She had been expecting him to say something mysterious, or at least something about how he wanted to kill Gaston.

"What?"

"Jones. Showed up at my door this afternoon."

"And—" She couldn't even come up with a reasonable hypothetical about the interaction. "—then what?"

He looked like he would rather be doing anything than sharing this story. "He explained everything, and apologized. Although, it seems he lied in his explanation of the bed breaking." He turned to her then, eyes narrowed, mouth set in an unamused line.

Belle's heart swelled like a balloon. "He did? What did he explain?"

Gold's distrust was again replaced with discomfort. "That your bed was from Craig's List, that you needed his truck and his 'youthful strength,' and that—well, he just apologized." He swallowed.

Belle looked over the crowd to find Hook, and attempt to thank him from afar, but he had reclaimed his old seat, across from Aurora, and looked to be deeply involved in hitting on her.

"Now, it is most definitely your turn." Gold's voice jarred her out of her search, and she turned to look at him with her lips pressed in a thin line.

"You're sure you want to hear it?" she asked, hoping that sharing wouldn't make her sound like a crazy desperate woman who was throwing herself at her dance partner.

"You owe me."

She wasn't sure she liked this deal-making thing they had going, but she supposed that, if it got him to talk to her, she couldn't complain. Much. "Fine. Do you want me to start at the beginning-beginning or the most recent beginning?"

"This is getting complicated. Just start at the beginning."

This didn't answer her question, but she figured that she owed him the entire story, since it was her lack of information that had caused him to disappear without warning. Twice.

"Fine. Gaston and I met a few weeks ago, the night before I threw up in your office."

"The one you didn't like?" he asked, frowning.

"The very same." At her answer, he narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"And you ended up together, how?"

"I'm honestly not sure." She shook her head. "He called me, and Ruby made me call him back, and then somehow, he decided that we were dating. I didn't really have a say."

"I think that's considered date rape."

"I'm not sure the law would agree with you."

"Who needs the law?" He didn't look like he needed the law—Belle was almost afraid he would go and chase Gaston down right then, from the look on his face.

"Well, anyway, I didn't tell you because it was a stupid relationship. I started trying to break up with him after my dad left." She didn't add that it was after spending the evening with Gold, but she hoped he would understand that. "It didn't really work."

"Because he kept doing things that made you want to stay?" The bitterness in his voice almost made Belle flinch.

"No, because he never let me speak."

"Well," Gold said, his face moving around like he was trying to hide something, "that is his loss."

She squeezed his shoulder. "Anyway, I tried for a week. Once, I almost got it, but then a cat fell on him and he went into anaphylactic shock saving its life, so I had to take him to the hospital, and you just can't dump your boyfriend at the hospital."

Gold blinked rapidly. "No, I suppose not. And the bed?"

"Ah." She pressed her lips together. Would he be jealous that she hadn't sought his help? Would he be angry with Hook for suggesting she sleep with Gaston? "Well, okay. I had always planned on never sleeping with Gaston, because it was very casual, you know? Also, I never liked him."

"Right." He nodded along, eyes moving like he wasn't sure whether or not he should be looking suspicious.

"But when I couldn't break up with him, Killian suggested that sleeping with him would make him less interested, because then he would 'win,' or some nonsense—but I wasn't going to actually sleep with him, don't worry."

He snorted, leaning his head back. "Why would that worry me?"

"No reason." She knew it did. "So we made the plan that I would make him think he had won, by almost sleeping with him, and then at the crucial moment, Killian would call me from the hospital and tell me my presence was necessary. Instead, the bed broke."

"While you were—not having sex?"

"Well, he sort of threw me onto it in preparation, and it couldn't handle that, I guess." She shrugged. "Then, he left, so I couldn't dump him, and I didn't see him again until tonight."

Gold's dancing slowed, not in time with the music, and he looked like he was contemplating the amp on stage. She wished he would say something, but it seemed that he was going to remain quiet, so it was up to her to break the awkward tension that it seemed only she felt.

She said the first thing she could think of. "Your knee—is it okay?"

"Hmm?" He looked back at her. "Oh, no, it's screaming in agony. I am going to regret this tomorrow."

He didn't look fazed by this in the slightest, but Belle's eyes widened in horror. "We should sit down, then! I don't want you to hurt yourself."

He pulled her closer. "It's worth it."

Her whole body shivered. "No, come on. I've already kept you here long enough. Besides, our food will be there soon, and also I have to spend time with Mulan, because she drove here from D.C. to see me."

He heaved a sigh, like he was about to expend great amounts of effort to comply. "Very well, I'll share you with the table." He pulled her a fraction closer. "Just as long as you know that I'm the one taking you home."

She didn't know if he meant her home or his home, but she found that she didn't much care—her knees still turned to jelly, and as she walked him back to the table, she clung to him as much for her own balance as his.

* * *

No one seemed surprised when Belle denied everyone else's offer of a ride home in favor of Dr. Gold's. Only Ruby and Mary Margaret tried to stop her—and Mulan, for reasons that had more to do with men in general than Dr. Gold specifically—but Hook took it upon himself to distract them so that she could make a hasty retreat.

When he realized that she had nothing for warmth, Gold draped his own coat over her shoulders, tucking it around her with the lingering movements of someone who might have been preparing to drag her forward by the collar and kiss her. He didn't do that, though, and just put his hand on her back to guide her out.

It seemed that he planned on taking her to her own home, because as soon as they were in the car with the heat running, he asked her where she lived.

"Shady Pines. It's over on—"

He cut her off with a growl, lurching the car backwards with enough force to knock her head into the seat. "I know where it is."

"Are you mad at me now?" she asked, finding herself more amused than disturbed by his mood swing.

"No. I just can't believe you live there, of all places." He shook his head, his driving more smooth as he shifted forward.

"What's wrong with it?" This was a stupid question. Everything was wrong with it.

"What isn't wrong with it?" He shook his head. "Do you own a gun?"

"Of course I don't own a gun." She pursed her lips at him. "Why would I? Most people who get killed in home robberies end up getting killed with their own gun."

He muttered something, and she thought she could make out the word 'ridiculous.' "I'll get you one."

"I don't want one. Didn't you hear me?"

"Darling, that's only a problem if the assailant can find your gun. If you aren't stupid, it won't kill you."

She was too involved in feeling dizzy at being called 'darling' again to protest the fact that he may or may not have just called her 'stupid.' She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Well, at least it's close," she said, and he shrugged his agreement.

They were silent until he turned onto her road, and Belle hoped she wasn't the only one who got more and more flustered with each passing second. She would never know, though, because Gold was unflappable.

"Which building are you?" he asked, nosing the car into the development like he was afraid he might trigger an explosive if he drove too fast.

"Six."

She almost wished that his engine would stall. The restaurant was far too close to her apartment for her liking right now, and she was dreading the idea of getting out of his car and not seeing him again until—well, until tomorrow, but even twelve hours sounded too long. If the Cadillac broke down, she would have an excuse to wait with him.

Alas, they made it to a parking space, where Gold cut the engine and turned to her. Her hands fluttered in her lap, so she pressed one over the other and forced herself to be calm.

"Oh," she said, cutting him off when he opened his mouth to speak. "Your coat." She struggled out of it, unbuckling halfway through when she realized that it was the seatbelt giving her such trouble, and then handed it to him. He looked like he wasn't sure what she was doing, but accepted it anyway.

"Thank you." He straightened it out, making a sort of curtain in front of himself while he felt around the inside. She didn't know what he was doing, but it provided cover for her hands to flutter again.

"So," he began, startling her into stillness. "Was your birthday everything you'd hoped it would be?"

"No." She shook her head, and he lowered the coat, peering over it at her like she had just taken away his cake.

"Oh. I'm—"

"It was a little bit more."

He pressed his lips together, and then disappeared behind the coat again. She frowned.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for your birthday present."

"Pocket lint?" she asked, though she could feel her cheeks heating with delight. She hadn't expected any gifts from anyone, much less him.

"Naturally."

He emerged seconds later, however, with a long, thin box in a blue that she was sure anyone would recognize from a mile away. She might have stopped breathing.

"Oh, Raphael." She didn't reach for it, hardly daring to believe that it existed, so he pressed it into her hands. She liked to think that she wasn't vain, or into expensive jewelry, but even she could appreciate something from Tiffany's. Even if it wasn't as personal a gift as she'd have liked, she knew he would have had to put a lot of effort—and money—into it.

"I was going to give it to you at dinner, to try and scare off your boyfriend, but since I didn't need to, I figured I'd wait. Besides, it doesn't match your tiara."

Her fingers felt numb as she pulled at the silver ribbon. If it was meant to assert his dominance over Gaston, it would probably be something gaudy and expensive looking. She would still wear it every day.

"Oh, Raphael, you didn't have to do this," she said, sounding like a babbling idiot even to herself. "You shouldn't have. I'm just glad that you were there, really—" She cut herself off with a gasp when she lifted the lid. Dr. Gold licked his lips, watching her like he was afraid she might throw it at him.

Somehow, even though he had gotten her the last thing she'd have thought to ask for, he had managed to get her the exact thing she'd have picked out for herself. It was a golden, key-shaped pendant, with a circle of diamonds around a citrine daisy at the top, hanging on a delicate gold chain. She stared at it, almost afraid to touch it, because she was sure that it cost more money than she would be paying for rent that year.

"Well?" he asked, voice hoarse.

She looked at him, taking in his wariness, the way his eyes darted between her face and the necklace, his shaking hand. His nervousness gave her courage, and she steeled herself for what she was about to say next. It was now or never, and it was time that she started to make up for all of his misconceptions.

"Would you like to come up?" She bit her lip, and held her breath.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks everyone for your nice words! :D Uhhhh this chapter is lengthy. Like I-went-a-little-crazy lengthy. enjoy? _

* * *

Gold didn't even have to think about his answer to that question, but in hindsight, saw that he probably should have.

"No, I don't want to come up," he said, wrinkling his nose. He realized this may have come out wrong when Belle stilled. Her eyes glassed over, and her shoulders looked like they were making a huge effort not to let her crumple.

"Oh." Her voice sounded like a ghost.

"Because," he hastened to add, "I don't even want you to go up there. This neighborhood is dangerous. You could die here, and no one would ever know."

Belle only looked slightly less saddened by this, and her eyebrows drew together. "So, I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

No. No, he didn't want to see her tomorrow. He wanted to keep seeing her, forever. This was like the moment she'd denied his invitation in the cemetery, but she'd had much better reasons than he did now. Then, he had been vulnerable, and she had been in a relationship, and her father had been in town. Now, she was single, he had spent the whole evening with her, and she was all but giving him permission to stay the night—because he knew that, if he got up there, he wasn't leaving until morning, even if all he did was watch her sleep like a deranged stalker.

"Why don't you come with me?" he asked, and when she just blinked, scrambled for something more to say. "I'll take you home whenever you're ready."

He hoped Belle wouldn't want him to, because that was a big fat lie. It had the desired effect, though, and her face softened.

"Okay. Let me just run up and get changed into something warmer?"

Changed. She was getting changed. That had to mean that she intended to stay awhile, right? "Of course," he said, clutching at his coat to keep his hands from quaking.

"All right. I'll be back in a minute." She bolted from the car before he could offer her his coat again, sprinting up a flight of stairs to an apartment on the second floor. He made note of the number—621—and then sat back to make sure no one threatening was out and about.

When Jones had appeared in his doorway that afternoon—had it really only been that afternoon?—he had been prepared to ignore him. Even receiving monthly checks from the man, Gold had no sympathy or affection for him, especially not once he had seen him with Belle. Jones was a life ruiner, and Gold had been convinced that he'd forced Belle to be with him just to get even.

His first plan had been to just sit in his study and continue to brood with his scotch and his violent novels, and he thought this was working. Jones had spent a few minutes knocking on the door without reprieve, but it had quieted, and Gold had relaxed.

Then, Jones had started up the ringing. There were few sounds that Gold hated more than doorbells, half because the noise itself was annoying, and half because it meant that someone dared interrupt his solitude.

He endeavored to ignore the persistent ringing, but it seemed that Jones had more patience with being annoying than Gold had with accepting annoying things, and he soon found himself clunking down the stairs with clenched teeth. When he flung the door open, he was prepared to growl and threaten with his cane, but he found himself pausing after one look at Jones. Instead of his usual cocksure saunter, he was shifting from foot to foot, twisting a ring around his finger over and over, chewing on his cheek.

It was some scraps of pity dragged up from the depths of his black heart that kept him from slamming the door. If Jones was coming to him for help, it meant he had hit rock bottom. He had tried not to think that the younger man was coming to him for romantic advice about Belle.

"What do you want?"

"To explain." Jones swallowed, and then looked him straight in the eye. "And apologize."

Gold had found himself unable to speak, and so had urged him to continue with a wave of his hand. He had explained that Belle's bed had broken in the middle of the night, so she'd needed a new one, and he had a truck that would make transportation easier. At the end of his story, he apologized for allowing his grudge against Gold to get in the way of Belle's happiness, and then all but got down on his knees to beg him to come to her birthday dinner.

Even so, he almost hadn't gone. He did trust what Jones had said, but that didn't change the fact that he had spent the past two days mired in a sadness so thick, he'd almost cancelled his classes to stay in bed. He was a coward through and through, and as terrified as he'd been to see Belle after the bed fiasco, he was even more terrified to see her after avoiding her.

In the end, he'd decided that what scared him the most was Jones telling her that he'd stopped by, and Belle being disappointed. Also, he had spent a small fortune on her present, and he needed to give it to her, even if it killed him.

She had left the necklace in the car. He didn't know if this meant something—like maybe she actually hated it and didn't even want to bring it into her apartment—or if she'd just forgotten it in her haste to find something warmer. Or maybe it was a subtle signal that she intended to spend more time around him, and so could leave precious objects in his care.

He could ask her in a few seconds. She was power-walking down the stairs, clutching something in her right fist, and her purse strap in her left. She looked all around, like she was checking for hidden cameras, and didn't acknowledge his car at all. He frowned. Had she forgotten where it was?

No, it seemed not, because even though she never looked at him, her path went in his direction, and he made sure the door was unlocked. She was wearing jeans now, and boots, with a burgundy coat he hadn't seen before, and a scarf and gloves. Her purse seemed to have doubled in size. When she plopped into the car, she had to work to wedge it in the space in front of her. There was something black in her right hand.

"What are you carrying?" He waved his hand toward the black thing.

She glanced at her hand. "Oh, this? It's just pepper spray. I've never had to use it, but better safe than sorry, right?"

His teeth clenched. No one would argue against him if he decided that he was never bringing her back here again.

"Of course."

She bent over to stuff it into her purse while he started the car. By the time he was turning to look behind him and make sure it was safe to back out, she was watching him with wide blue doe eyes, chewing her lip. He waited until he was going straight, and could devote actual attention to her, before turning and raising an eyebrow. She didn't speak, just flashed all of her teeth.

"Yes, darling?" he asked. When had he gotten so comfortable calling her that? It didn't matter. It wasn't like he could stop now.

"It occurs to me that I haven't had a cake today."

He glanced at her. She looked shifty, like she expected him to deny this fact, and subsequently to deny her a cake. Of course he wouldn't do that. First thing in the morning, he'd call every bakery in town.

"They put a candle in an éclair at the restaurant."

She didn't look pleased by this observation, lips flattening and nose wrinkling. "But I can't share an éclair with anyone."

"From where I was sitting—which was right next to you—it seemed like everyone was sharing."

"Yeah, and I only got one bite of my birthday dessert. How is that fair?" She stuck her lower lip out, and he chuckled.

"I'll get a cake tomorrow morning. You can bring it to the office."

"No need!"

This worried him. It worried him even more when Belle dived into her bag, but he tried to keep his eyes on the empty road, and his hands on the wheel. She popped up seconds later with a red box.

"And why's that?" he asked, unable to shake the feeling that he should be scared of the box that he could only see out of his periphery.

"We can bake a cake!" She tilted the box so that he could see it better. It had a piece of chocolate cake on the front, and _Devil's Food_ across the top in loopy script.

"Belle, do you know what time it is?"

"Of course. It's the perfect time to bake a cake. This is when I get all of my baking done."

He rubbed his forehead. He knew he wouldn't say no, and Belle seemed to know, too, because she hopped in her seat when he sighed out his resignation.

"What else have you got in that bag?" He glanced at her.

"Oh, the same thing every woman has in her bag." She flashed him a grin while she leaned down to put the mix away.

"Tissues and chocolate?"

"Please. It's not my PMS purse," she said, shaking her head at him.

"So what's in there, then?"

She looked at him, eyes narrowed enough to make him think this might be something serious, that she was ending their banter because she had some horrible truth to reveal. He tried to focus on the road instead of looking at her with increasing alarm, waiting for her to speak.

"Well?"

"Secrets," she said. "And bricks."

Was he supposed to laugh or scoff? He settled for rolling his eyes, and pressing his lips together. He couldn't do much more than that when she was smiling like she was.

"All right, fine. You're lucky I've still got cake pans."

"Perfect," Belle said, settling back in her seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pick up the Tiffany box, lifting the lid to trace the pendant. "Oh, and I didn't have any icing, so we'll have to make some."

What had he gotten himself into? "Fine."

"You've got butter, right?"

"I think so."

"And powdered sugar?"

"Of course not." He glanced at her. "Why would I have powdered sugar?"

She closed the box, and looked at him sideways. "Why wouldn't you? It's a baking staple."

"Belle, I've been a single man for twelve years, and lived alone for six. Do you really think that I keep my kitchen stocked with 'baking staples?'"

"Well, then we'll just have to go to the store. You have vegetable oil, right?"

Gold sighed through his nostrils, teeth clenched. When had the night become a quest for cake ingredients? He just wanted to bring her back to his place, and have his wicked way with her—though, that was unlikely to happen no matter what.

Oh, well. As long as he got to spend time with her, he supposed it didn't matter what they did.

"That I do. Eggs, even."

"Vanilla?"

"Think about that one."

She huffed. "Fine, we'll get that, too." She pulled out her phone and poked some things on the screen before she started to type. "Anything else? You said yes to the butter, right?"

"Mm."

"All right, I've got the list ready." She waved her phone at him, looking more excited than he was sure anyone other than Belle had ever looked while in an enclosed space with him

This was how he found himself pulling into the Dark Star Pharmacy, the only store he could think of that was open at this time. It wasn't a grocery store, but it had the basics, and he hoped that this covered whatever it was that Belle had decided they needed.

He soon found himself being tugged by the forearm toward the small baking section. There wasn't any vanilla, but Belle found a box of powdered sugar the size of a small child, and lugged it off the shelf. He wished he could help her, but as soon as he tried to lift an awkwardly shaped heavy thing, he knew his leg would embarrass him, so he settled for keeping a bracing hand on her back while they walked to the register. On his way, he plucked a package of birthday candles off a shelf.

"Wait, hang on." She veered left, nearly knocking both of them over. "As long as we're here, I need some ibuprofen."

He allowed her to lead him to the pharmacy section of the drugstore, preparing himself for the fight they would have when she tried to pay for everything, and he forced his credit card on her. Then, all of these thoughts flew out the window, because on the opposite side of the painkiller aisle was a head of shiny brown hair that he recognized.

Not only did he recognize the head, but he recognized the section as the only one without a name, the one that was frequented by the frat boys and high schoolers. It was the section in which Gold, over a decade ago, had purchased a box of condoms, and now it was where Regina Mills was wandering with her head bent.

"All right, I've got it." Belle wagged a box in his face, and instead of responding, he placed two fingers over her lips. When she frowned in confusion, he placed his other index finger over his own, and tilted his head toward the top of Regina's.

Belle probably didn't recognize her, since she had far less practice than Gold did, but she at least realized that he didn't want to be heard, and so allowed him to shush her. He removed his hand when Regina started for the register, and motioned for Belle to follow him. With practiced silence, he limped up behind the mayor in line.

"Lovely evening, isn't it?" he asked.

In front of him, Regina tensed. He tried to keep the impish grin from his face, but it was so hard, especially when Regina made an obvious effort to keep her movements slow as she spun to face him.

"Indeed." She forced a smile, but he could see that her teeth were clenched behind it. He could also see the boxes on the counter, even though she had slid to hide them behind her before she could finish talking. One was, in fact, a box of Trojans—ribbed—and the other was something strawberry scented, that boasted to "heat and tingle on contact." He suspected oil.

"Plans?" he asked, flicking a glance toward the counter.

Regina's throat convulsed, and then she swung around to pay for her items. If she had been buying anything else, he knew that it would have been him in the hot seat—coming into a drugstore to buy sugar with an attractive woman half his age was just asking for trouble—but, in her embarrassment, she didn't even seem to see Belle.

When Regina started to stalk away, Belle hefted the box onto the counter. He saw her start to pull her wallet out, muting her movements like she knew he would stop her and so was trying to hide them, but he had his card on the counter much faster.

"Have fun!" he called after Regina as she skittered out, satisfied that he had both kept Belle from spending money and humiliated the mayor, all in one fell swoop.

Belle watched with her arms folded as he signed the receipt, accepting his card from Mr. Clark. He was able to carry the bag, since it had handles, and he all but snatched it out of her grasp when she reached for it, and then hurried to his car before she could attempt to take it out of his hands.

"What was that all about?"

"You didn't really expect me to let you buy me sugar?" he asked, having to half bend inside the car to get the bag in the backseat without upsetting his knee.

"No, not that—with the mayor."

"Oh, that." He closed the door, unable to keep the glee from spreading across his face. He was glad that Belle looked amused, because he was afraid that this would be one of those things she felt the need to fix about him. "It was just the perfect way to get back at her for inviting my ex-wife to Storybrooke."

Belle frowned, and he was afraid that she was going to scold him—not that he ever really minded when she did. "How? You hardly said two words to each other."

His grin grew. "You didn't see what she was buying, then?" She shook her head, and he turned so that he could chuckle to himself while he walked to his door. "Let's just say that she was buying two things—one ribbed for her pleasure, and one strawberry-flavored."

He glanced at her, and she had her lips pressed together, eyes creased in amusement.

"Oh my," she said, and then pressed her hand over her mouth to cover her escaping snickers.

"This might be the best day of my life." This, mixed with Belle's laughter, had him dancing backwards into the driver's seat before he could realize it, and stop himself. This only seemed to delight Belle more, though, and she lingered by his side for a few seconds, watching him with a smile that mirrored his own.

* * *

When they pulled up to his house, Gold was glad that it was the middle of the night. She'd be able to see that his house was light, with blue trim, but not that it was pink, and then she wouldn't be able to make fun of him. Not that he was ashamed of the color of his house—he rather liked that it stood out, and looked like gingerbread—but he just didn't want to have to explain himself right then.

In fact, he wasn't sure that he could explain himself even if he'd wanted to. He had thought that he would be okay bringing Belle here, that it would make him happy and ease his mind to be near her, but all it had done was make him sweat. He wanted to run outside and shed his overcoat, and then his jacket, and then maybe his waistcoat and shirt because he didn't think either of those things would help the sweating, but then Belle would think she had gone home with a crazy man, and either call the police or demand that he take her home.

So, instead, he attempted to string some words together, thanking god that he was so good with them. "Well, here we are."

He chanced a look at her, and she was staring at the house, mouth open. Could she see the pink?

"Your house is huge."

He squeezed his thigh hard to keep his chuckles from erupting into relieved giggles. "Aye, that it is."

He realized, after about half a minute of silence, that he probably should have gotten out of the car. Now, however, the silence had stretched on for so long, he wasn't sure what to do. He and Belle both had their attention directed to the house, and neither of them moved. Should he break the silence? Would it be weird if he did?

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Belle asked, and instead of sounding teasing, her voice cracked. It eased his mind—she was nervous, too.

"No." He shook his head, drawing on all of the sarcasm inside of him. "I thought I'd leave you out here to freeze."

He got out of the car, surprised that Belle hadn't volleyed back, but when he turned to get his cane, found that she had instead just stolen it. He lifted an eyebrow.

"This is your way of retaliating? Stealing my cane?"

"It seems effective." She was looking up at him in a way that made both of his knees weak. Even with the cane, he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk.

"If your goal was to strand me at my car, then I suppose it is." He knew that he had already put more strain on his knee than he had put on it in years, but it was fine for the moment—tomorrow, or even just an hour or two from now, would be another story.

"I'll give you your cane back if you promise to help bake the cake."

He pressed a hand to his heart. "If that's all, then you have my word."

"Then, here. Grab the sugar, too?" She set his cane in his seat before lugging her purse up, and getting out.

He did as he was told, and was less surprised than he'd have liked to be that his hands were shaking. By the time he and Belle were walking side-by-side to the door, he couldn't put his hand on her back, because then she would feel his nerves. Instead, he gripped his cane in one hand, and the bag in the other, taking the lead to the door.

Gold had a lifetime of terrible ideas to look back on, but he was almost certain that this idea was his worst of all. It took him four tries to get his key into the lock, and he could tell that Belle wasn't looking because she knew, and wanted to be polite, not because she just happened to be looking elsewhere. He almost tripped inside when he finally got the door open, and when Belle reached out a hand to steady him, he kind of wished that he had tripped, and died.

"You have stained glass windows." Belle followed him in, sounding breathless and awestruck. This did much to soothe him.

"I do." He closed and locked the door behind her, then tried to settle his hands by being meticulous about taking off his coat and scarf. It was only when he'd finished, and moved to take Belle's coat from her, that he realized that she stood frozen in the entryway, mouth agape in what looked like horror. Gold's sweating came back.

"Belle?"

"Oh my god." She tilted her head left, looking like a robot moving on a screw.

He had too much saliva in his mouth. He was going to drown in a pool of saliva and sweat. "What's wrong?"

"Oh my god."

He couldn't speak, so he waited for her to make another visual circuit of the room, and then spin around to face him. She still looked horrified, but there was now a bit of the Belle he knew in there—she was getting ready to scold him.

"Oh my god, you are a hoarder."

The relief he felt at this pronouncement was short-lived, because he soon found himself indignant. "I am not a hoarder."

She waved her arms at the room, looking like a flapping, wine-colored flamingo. "What do you call all this, then?"

He looked around. Sure, his house was a bit cluttered, but it wasn't like it was cluttered with garbage. Belle was being unreasonable. "I'm not a hoarder," he repeated. "I'm a collector."

She took a few steps forward, peering through the doorway to the next room, which was also filled with delicate trinkets—also two antique pianos, but he hoped she didn't see those. With every step she took, she paused to look around, getting slowly closer to the room.

"The difference between 'collecting' and 'hoarding' is that one is a safe hobby, and the other is a compulsion. Your house looks like your shop."

"Well, they are both mine."

"Houses aren't supposed to look like pawn shops, Raphael."

"Says who?" He watched her, unable to decide whether he was amused or discouraged by her scolding. He went with amused—and a little bit turned on, but that wasn't an idea he wanted to explore at the moment.

He knew the moment that she saw the pianos, because she whirled around, arms folded. "Two pianos? Do you play?"

"I could."

"But do you?"

"I thought you wanted to bake a cake?"

She pursed her lips at him, but he could tell that she was hiding a smile, and this brought one twitching to the corners of his mouth. He limped over, setting the sugar down next to her before offering his hands.

"I'll take your coat."

"Thanks."

Gold was sure that she was taking longer than usual to remove her winter wear, but she was doing it in a way that looked so natural, he could find no way to mention it. She started with her gloves, plucking at each finger twice until she had them far enough down her hands that she could ease them off. Next went her scarf, which she unwound with careful precision before folding it into eighths. She placed both things in her purse, exchanging them for the cake mix, and then went to work undoing all eight buttons on her double-breasted coat. She was only taking off her outer layers, but Gold couldn't look away.

When she got her coat open, and dropped it down her shoulders, he almost collapsed on his useless, weak knees right there, in the foyer. Underneath it, she was wearing a sheer, burgundy sweater. There were people who he knew would have felt no shame wearing it with nothing underneath, baring skin and undergarments alike, but he would not have pegged Belle as one of those people. He knew, without a doubt, that had she worn this sweater in public, he would not have been able to see the clear outline of her dark bra, because she would have worn another shirt over it, or whatever women did to cover up under sheer shirts.

This could only mean two things—one, that she had dressed so quickly that she had forgotten, or two, that she had done it on purpose. Judging by the way she didn't react to seeing herself all but bared before him, he was inclined to suspect the latter.

"Kitchen is this way." His voice was hoarse, and the only thing keeping him from fleeing the scene was his knee and cane.

"I thought you were going to take my coat?" She held it out to him, and he swallowed.

"Right. Of course." He forced his lips to spread into a waxy smile as he accepted it. He turned away from her more than necessary to limp his way over to the coat rack, and then took too much time to hang it on the peg next to his. It helped settle his nerves. Kind of.

"You said the kitchen was this way?" she called, voice already sounding far off. Of course she had wandered away. She was Belle.

"Just keep walking, you'll find it."

When he turned around, he forced himself to be reasonable about seeing her again. It wasn't like the shirt had gaping holes, or was obviously meant to be worn over something else—it just happened to be thin enough that he could see through it at this moment. It was possible that, with a flesh-toned bra, he would never have noticed. She wasn't trying to seduce him. She had just been dressing with speed.

"Where do you keep your mixing bowls?"

"You didn't say anything about mixing bowls," he said, starting for the kitchen. His lips twitched at the yelp of distress that he'd expected her to make.

"You have to have one somewhere in your hoarder's nest!" she called, and he wondered that she hadn't just begun opening cabinets. Maybe she felt it was rude?

He limped silently up behind her. "Try the cabinet next to the bottom oven."

She let out an 'oh!' of surprise, whipping around to face him so abruptly, she almost fell over. He reached out to steady her, but she grabbed an oven handle instead. "Right. That's logical." She was watching him warily, eyes raking over his face, and it took her a few seconds to get back to normal, and bend to check the cabinets.

"Your kitchen is amazing, by the way. You don't deserve it."

"Oh? And how did you come to that conclusion?" He leaned against the kitchen island, above which hung all of his cast iron and stainless steel pots and pans. There were two ovens, one on top of the other, and all of the counter tops were marble.

"Because you live alone and I know you don't cook enough to warrant all of this." She waved her hands at the industrial sized fridge, the wall of fancy appliances like the waffle iron and panini press, and then the double ovens.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she ought to just move in with him and use his kitchen, but he swallowed the notion. "I haven't always lived alone," he said instead.

"I doubt you did much cooking before, either." She shook her head at him, and then turned to preheat the oven.

That was pretty accurate, so he shrugged before going about gathering his electric mixer and the ingredients on the back of the cake box. After settling everything in front of her, he set about looking for cake pans.

"You know, it'll take less time to bake and cool if we make cupcakes instead," she said, cracking the eggs.

"You're asking a lot of me, to just produce a cupcake pan out of nowhere," he said, but he thought he might have one anyway. He had been married once, after all, and though Milah was not the best cook, she had been an enthusiastic one at one point—and it wasn't like he threw anything away.

"You're telling me that you make ice cream more than you make cupcakes?" She pointed to his ice cream maker, situated between the expensive blender and popcorn popper.

He moved toward another cabinet, where he kept all of the things that he didn't use. "Perhaps." His intention had been to retrieve the pan for her after that, but the cabinet was a low one, and when he tried to bend to get it, his knee throbbed in agony. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

Belle was at his side in seconds, hands hovering over him and touching nothing. "Raphael? Are you all right?"

"It's in here." He poked the cabinet door with his cane, unwilling to discuss his knee in front of the young woman in his kitchen, who may or may not have been trying to seduce him with a see-through sweater.

Belle knelt to get it, and he was just as drawn in to the skin he could see on her back as he had been to what he could see from the front. Having her here was torture.

"I don't suppose you have cupcake liners?" she asked as she stood up with the pan.

"If I do, they're about fifteen years old."

She clucked her tongue before thrusting the pan at him. "Spray this, then."

"Spray? With oil?" He cast a dubious look at the pan.

"Yes. It'll be fine."

Trusting Belle, because he was not a baker, he did as he was told. By the time he finished, she had made the batter, and was poking around in his drawers to look for something.

"Can I help you?"

"Ice scream scoop? Or a ladle."

He found and brought her both, but after one look at the scoop, she wrinkled her nose and selected the ladle. It didn't take long for her to fill the cups, and then she was sliding the pan into the oven and setting the timer, and then all of her attention was on him. He wasn't expecting to find her looking at him, with her too-blue eyes and too-visible bra, and he didn't know what to do. They watched each other. He gripped his cane to keep his hands from flapping.

"We need to take the butter out," she said, jerking one hand toward the fridge, and then clasping both in front of her chest.

"Right, I'll do—" He started toward the fridge, and then she turned toward it as well, both of them talking and stumbling over each other.

"Is it in the—"

"It's in the—"

"Oh, did you want—"

She stopped and turned around, but he didn't stop in time, and they would have collided had he not thrown his hand around her hip and thrust his cane forward to brace himself.

"Oh." She was so close to him, he thought he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Maybe it was his own heart. His hand flexed on her hip, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was glad that his fingers weren't sweaty enough to stick to her.

Her lips parted like she meant to start talking, but no words came out. They were close enough that it would have taken no effort at all to lower his mouth to hers, and she didn't look like she'd mind at all. Her hands moved from clasped against her chest to resting against his, and they fit against his sternum like their bodies had grown knowing about this moment. His mind started to get foggy and distant, in a way that he would never have associated with closeness—and he soon realized it was because he had stopped breathing.

He pulled away from her with a haggard gasp for air, because he knew that, if he had managed to forget to do something like breathe, he had definitely managed to blow an innocent situation out of proportion. It didn't explain the way Belle's eyes widened, and her hands clutched after him for a second—but then she tripped backwards in her haste to get away from him, and he was convinced that he'd done the right thing.

"The butter," he said, swallowing to get the extra saliva out of his mouth and into his dry throat. "It's in the fridge. On the door."

"Right." She whirled away from him. "The butter. Right."

He needed something to do, or he was just going to stand there and stare at her like madman. "I'll make tea." He lurched toward the stove where he kept his kettle, a ceramic one that wouldn't rust with repeated use, and which was probably the only expensive appliance in his kitchen that he used on a regular basis. His knee screamed, and he ignored it.

"Great." She turned from the fridge, holding the stick of butter. For a second, he was afraid that she was going to throw it at him, but then she set it on the counter. "I'll be at the table."

She took the long way there—to avoid coming near him, he imagined—and he took his time filling the kettle with water, and then getting down mugs and tea.

"Earl grey, chamomile, or—ah—" He looked at the label on the canister of tea that he'd bought after telling Belle that he had some good herbal teas that night in the cemetery. "Sweet fruit garden?"

"Fruit," she said, with no traces of her usual good humor. He wished, for the umpteenth time that night, that he would die immediately.

"Right-o," he said, and then wished again for death, because what the hell?

Belle didn't speak again, so he busied himself measuring out the leaves, and digging out the second tea strainer that he had bought the same night as the tea blend. The kettle was whistling by the time he had everything measured and settled, so he poured the water, wishing this could somehow take longer so that he wouldn't have to face the woman at his table, who he had almost molested with his mouth, and whose bra he could see.

"How do you take your tea?"

"Honey."

He dug around in his cabinets for the honey, then moved to the fridge to grab a lemon wedge from his dish of them, and then there was nothing left for him to do, so he started bringing everything to the table. He had to bring the teacups one at a time, because his leg wouldn't allow him not to use his cane. Belle looked half ready to get out of the chair and help him, but was leaning away like she was afraid, face tinged pink.

"Are you keeping your jacket on because you're planning on driving me home soon?"

He stopped walking. He had forgotten that he'd promised to do that—she must want him to, after the whole almost-kiss fiasco. He needed to find a way to keep her there, to explain that he never would have kissed her without her consent, without actually admitting that he had thought about kissing her. He looked around for some excuse, and his eyes fell upon the oven timer.

"You haven't had cake yet," he said, baring his teeth in a forced smile. "Surely, you can't leave before that?"

She watched him set her tea down, and when he turned to make the painful journey back to the counter, she stood. "Sit. I'll get it. Where are the spoons?"

He couldn't be bothered to feel like she'd stabbed his pride, because he was too grateful to sit and get the weight off his leg. He sighed, stretching it out away from her chair. "Second drawer from the fridge."

He knew that she heard him, because she nodded her acknowledgement, but this didn't stop her from opening three drawers on her way there, exploring their messily organized contents. She threw him a sheepish look over her shoulder when she came to the correct drawer, and he let go a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She was getting over whatever mood he'd put her in, and now he could go about making it up to her and convincing her to stay with him forever. She could probably even make a list of reasons for him—she knew how dangerous her apartment complex was.

As she walked over, he shrugged out of his jacket, laying it on the empty chair next to him. He should have taken his tie off, but he was afraid of being too casual, and making her feel uncomfortable. He murmured his thanks for the spoon.

Belle didn't sit down. "Is your knee all right?"

He looked up at her. "It's fine." This was a lie, and Belle turned a blank look toward him. He recognized it as disapproval, but it was not her usual disapproving look. It didn't have her usual pursed lips, or flaring nostrils—she just looked blank and mad, and still pinker than usual.

"It's not fine. You shouldn't have done so much dancing."

He knew what he should have said, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. He had never seen Belle looking like this before.

"Do you have an ice pack?"

He looked at her, eyebrows drawn. "What?"

"An ice pack. For your knee?" She pointed to it, watching him like she was afraid he might attack her. Again.

"That's not—" He swallowed 'necessary' at the look she gave him. "I have a pack for my knee in the freezer, in the top drawer. It's blue."

She flashed him a tiny smile before hurrying off to get it. He considered the merits of keeping his leg where it was so that she would have to touch it and move it, but then reasoned that he shouldn't punish her like that, and also that she would have to touch him to put the ice pack on anyway.

"God, even your ice packs are fancy," she said, sliding the freezer closed.

"You found it, then?"

"I'm lucky if I have frozen peas to use."

He chuckled, and then set about the task of lifting his leg to the chair. His knee did not want to make the trip, but he knew it would feel better elevated and stretched out. He didn't register that Belle was there, and had set the ice down, until her hands were on his leg.

"Here, let me."

He bit his tongue to keep from hissing with alarm as she moved her hands along his calf to position his leg. Then, her hands left for a second, but they were back again with the ice pack, strapping it around his knee and then smoothing it out.

When she moved, he grabbed for her as a reflex, feeling the loss of her touch more than he should have. His hand closed around her forearm, and she looked at him.

"It was worth it," he said, watching her carefully. She relaxed toward him, and licked her lips, but her forehead was creased.

"What was?"

"Dancing with you. I would have done it all night. I still would. Even like this." He gestured to his knee, loosening his grip on her arm.

She looked like gravity was pulling her forward against her will, and somehow, she ended up close enough to him that he could reach her face, if he wanted to.

"But look at you. You can hardly walk ten feet."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It was your birthday. I wanted you to have a good time."

He realized, then, as her face went a deeper shade of red, that her pink cheeks had been blushes. What did she have to blush about? He should have been the one embarrassed.

"I had a really good time. I'm glad you were there."

She bit her lip, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching forward and threading his fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ear as he cradled the side of her head. Maybe he hadn't misinterpreted earlier—because he was breathing now, and Belle had braced a hand on his outstretched thigh to keep them close. She must have thought he was rejecting her before, and he wasn't going to make that mistake again, even if it would take far more effort to bridge this distance than it would have when they were standing.

"Belle," he whispered, starting to pull her forward.

Then, the timer beeped, and they both jumped away from each other like they'd been caught doing something illegal.

"Oh, the cupcakes!" Her voice came out in a squeak, and she almost fell in her haste to get to the oven.

"Right." He had never hated anything as much as he hated cupcakes right then.

He had hoped that, once she got them out, she would come back and reposition herself next to him, but instead, she went about setting up paper towels to cool the cakes on. Then, he was sure that she would take them out of the tin, and then she would fill it with the remaining batter, and whatever moment they'd had would be lost forever. He glared at his knee for making him so immobile.

"About ten more minutes on your knee, okay?" Belle said, wiping her finger along the edge of the mixing bowl to scrape up some batter, and then popping it in her mouth. He wished he were that finger—or even the bowl.

"Yes, fine."

"Do you have a heat pad?"

Why was this happening? Why did she have to do everything but stand next to him so that he could kiss her? Did she not want him to?

"It's upstairs." He hoped this would dissuade her, but instead, her face lit up.

"I'll get it! Where is it?"

He sighed. Of course Belle wanted to poke around upstairs. It would have been more polite of him to give her a tour, but she was happy enough to give one to herself.

"Linen closet. Up the stairs, to the left, all the way at the end of the hallway, next to the bathroom."

She hardly waited for him to finish speaking before bolting out of the room. He sat and waited, trying not to think that every thump and muffled squeak was something breaking, or falling on Belle. While she was gone, he took his tie off, laying it by his jacket, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt—this way, she'd know that he intended to stay here.

She returned five entire minutes later, heat pad in hand and lips pressed together like a child who'd snuck a live frog into the house.

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I got a little lost." She set the pad on the table, then moved to the bowls.

"No, you didn't. You're a smart woman—it's not hard to find a linen closet next to a clearly marked bathroom."

"Your directions were complicated," she insisted. "I didn't know you could sew."

He was about to retort, when what she said sunk in, and he frowned. "What?"

"I found a sewing machine box in your closet. It wasn't your wife's, was it? I mean, you wouldn't have kept your wife's sewing machine for twelve years?"

He snorted at the thought of Milah ever picking up a sewing machine. Even when he'd been convinced that he loved her, he hadn't had any delusions about her domesticity.

"No, it's mine. I sew."

"Really?" She was talking with her back to him, and he considered getting up so that he could stand where he could see her face. He loved the way she looked when she got curious about something, but he knew she would kill him if he moved when he only had a few more minutes left of icing.

"Really. I like sewing. I like doing things with my hands."

She swiveled the upper half of her body around to face him. "Are you any good at doing things with your hands?"

For a second, he thought she was flirting with him, and he felt his entire body warm up—until she continued on with, "I only ever see you with little bits and pieces of things on your desk, so I can't tell."

"I'm surprised you never asked what they were."

She gave him a knowing smile, then turned back to the counter. "Well, you know how men are about things with screws."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I do, darling. Care to shed some light?"

"They always like to think they can fix everything, and it never looked like you were getting anything done, so I didn't want to hurt your feelings by asking."

She didn't want to hurt his feelings, and even if she was being a bit facetious, it was one of the reasons that he loved her. He chuckled, shaking his head, and she turned to look at him.

"What?"

"I have something to show you."

"Does it involve getting up?" She turned back to the bowl, tilting it to scrape out the last of the batter. He was so tired of the stupid cupcakes.

"It does."

"It'll have to wait, then. I'll take your ice pack off in a minute. Where can I plug the heat pad in?"

He couldn't decide which he hated more—his knee, or the cake. "There's an outlet behind me."

She slid the tray into the oven, and then it was his turn to have her undivided attention, thank God. She plugged the heat pad in before coming over, setting it on the table to warm up. Her hands were gentle on his now-numb knee, running her fingers over the joint once she'd removed the ice.

"Ready?" she asked, and he wanted to say no so that she would keep her hands there, but he just nodded. The heat pad, too, was knee-shaped, and she didn't have to do much work to contour it to his leg. "All right. Keep this on until the cupcakes are done, and then you can show me whatever you want, okay?"

It was the longest twenty minutes of his life. Belle sat across from him at the table, drinking her lukewarm tea, and they chatted about something, but he couldn't remember what because it was the first time that she had been sitting still with her bra just right there, and he couldn't focus on anything coming out of her mouth for longer than it took to respond to it.

When the cupcakes finished, he watched her get up, sad that he had to tear his eyes away from her front, but still glad for the view that her back provided him.

"Do you mind if I make the icing really quick?"

He minded so much if she made the icing—but it wasn't like he could say that. He would sound petulant and ornery. "Whatever strikes your fancy."

They couldn't even talk while she did it, because the mixer was loud and she couldn't hear him, so he sat in his chair feeling like he was in time-out. He did, at one point, realize that he'd been sitting like this for long enough, and went to work setting his knee to rights. His cane wasn't far, so he could even stand without much trouble, and under the cover of the mixer, he managed to sneak up behind Belle without any issues at all.

When she turned to find him there, she screamed. His amusement almost made up for not being able to kiss her. Twice.

"Ready?" He offered his arm, and she swatted at it.

"How can you possibly be so quiet? You have a cane."

"Practice."

He grinned down at her, and she grinned back at him, and they were close enough now, but this wasn't the right moment, so he didn't kiss her. Instead, he slid his arm around her back, turning her away from the countertop and toward him.

"Come on. I think you'll appreciate this."

He had planned to lead her up the stairs, but it ended up being more of her job to lead him. His knee may have felt a little better under her care, but it was still angry with him for doing so many things with his legs that evening. Though he wished he could put on a brave face for her and pretend that he was fine, he also knew that she was the only person he would allow to see him without that brave face, and that intimacy was worth more to him than his pride.

"This way." He nudged her to the right when they reached the second floor, and she kept her arm around his waist.

He kept the door to his workroom closed, but he did not keep the door to his study closed, and it was this doorway that she spotted first. She flung herself away from him and toward the room with a gasp, flicking the light switch on.

"Oh, your bookshelf!"

He would have given anything for her to sound that way when she said his name. Instead, he had to settle for shivering at the proximity of her voice, even if all of her affection was directed at his furniture.

"That's not what I wanted to show you."

The look she gave him when she turned around almost broke his heart. "It's not?"

"Come on." He beckoned her toward the closed door of his workroom. She sighed, casting one last wistful look at his study before turning the light off and joining him.

He swung the door open like he was presenting her into a filled ballroom, and Belle reached in to get the light. She didn't gasp this time, but she did pause, one foot forward and one near him, which almost caused her to topple sideways until she threw her arms out to balance. He put his hand on her back, and she leaned into it.

It was his workroom, but it might have been more aptly called a "craft room." It was where he kept his sewing machine, all of his tools, and all of the projects on which he embarked. The only thing he did not do in this room was repair antiques, unless they needed something more than what he kept for repairs in the backroom of his shop.

This room was also the home of two tiny, model towns with tiny, model railroads, and it was these that he wanted to show Belle. They were the trains that he'd been building in his office, and the larger of the two towns was missing some railcars and buildings because he hadn't finished yet.

Belle took a few seconds to look around, wide-eyed and curious, and then whirled on him. "Do they move?"

Gold let out air in a _pfft_. "Of course they move. Come on." He guided her toward the smaller town—inspired by what he remembered of Glasgow—and positioned her at the front, where she would have the best vantage point. She stood there obediently, clasping her hands in front of her and pressing her lips together, while he went around to the side where the switch was.

"Wait." He hurried as quickly as his knee would allow him to turn the big light off, and Belle let out a yelp at the sudden darkness.

"Can you make it back?" she asked, but he was already limping his way over.

"All right. Are you ready?"

He could see the outline of her nod, and he grinned, pressing the switch. The whole town lit up—streetlights, windows, lights on the train—and a whistle sounded before everything started moving.

"Did you build all of this? Do the wiring yourself?"

From where he was standing, he had a perfect view of Belle's awestruck face, and it filled him with pride. A lot of people would have thought it strange that the terrifying Dr. Gold liked to build model trains, but Belle was fascinated, as he'd hoped she would be. She walked around the town, trailing the tips of her fingers along the edge of the table, where she wouldn't upset any of the scene. She stopped a few inches away from him, reaching forward to run a finger along the rooftop of a miniature library.

"The Archibald Hopper Memorial Library?" She turned to him, lips pressed to contain laughter. "Is that a tribute or a death wish?"

"A bit of both." His hand slid onto her back without him telling it to, and he curled his fingers around her hip.

"I didn't know you two were so close."

He shrugged, looking over his town. Most of the things that he'd named had been named after people he knew, whether to be insulting, complimentary, or neutral. The jail, for instance, was the Milah Mills Correctional Facility, and there was a little sewage plant wedged into a corner with the name 'Jones' scrawled across its door in Gold's neat, loopy script. He had put his own pawn shop in a corner.

"Do I have a building?" she asked, leaning forward to squint at the dimly lit signs.

"Nope. Made this when I thought you were awful."

She looked at him sideways, still bent over the little town. "You thought I was awful?"

"I thought you were the worst. Still do, in fact."

Belle looked up at him and bit her lip, a gesture that made him hot and cold at the same time, as well as unreasonably sweaty again. He now had no doubt that she knew its affect on him.

"So cruel to a poor, defenseless woman," she said, shaking her head slowly.

"Poor and defenseless, hmm? I seem to recall you surviving a kidnapping by a rather fearsome gentleman."

She twisted in his arms enough that all he had to do was press against her back to pull her closer, and then she was mere inches from his chest, looking up at him with a secretive sort of smile and biting her damn lip.

"He wasn't as fearsome as he made himself out to be."

When he felt her hand rest atop his on the cane, he almost jumped. He managed not to, and tilted his head forward. She leaned to meet him, touching her forehead against his, and for a second, they just looked at each other.

"Did I tell you that you looked beautiful tonight?" His voice was a hoarse growl, but he was pleasantly surprised that his words had managed to have any sound at all.

"You did not."

They were so close, he could almost feel her smile. He reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear, trailing his fingers along her jaw until the smile melted from her face.

"You did. You do. You always look beautiful."

"Raphael," she said, her voice coming out in a soft sigh.

Every time she said his name, it sent tingles along his spine. No one called him Raphael, and it was like it was Belle's own, special name for him—not just his actual first name.

"Belle, my darling," he whispered, and he felt like there was piano music rising up inside of him—which, he realized seconds later, was an oddly specific thing to feel when gazing into the lips and face of the woman with whom he was in love.

Belle seemed to realize that there was actual piano music at about the same time he did, and she leapt backward, reaching into her pocket for her phone. His hands and arms and chest burned where they no longer touched her.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," she said, fumbling with it. He wanted to grab the stupid phone and hurl it against the wall.

"It's fine." It wasn't. He wanted to beat something with his cane.

"I wouldn't answer, but it could be an emergency this late." She flashed him an apologetic smile before hurrying out of the room. He took a second to compose himself and switch off all the lights, then followed her. After the darkness of the workroom, the hallway was blinding, and he had to squint against the light before he could focus on Belle's face.

She did not look worried. Rather, she had her lips pressed together and nostrils flared in what he could only imagine was annoyance. Good. At least she wasn't happy about being interrupted.

"Hook—" She sounded like she was working hard to get a word in, and Gold clenched his jaw to keep from roaring. Not only was it not an emergency, but it was Jones, and he was going to find him and beat him to death.

His rage dissipated a fraction when Belle looked up and beckoned him over.

"Hook, that's a terrible—" She groaned, and as he got closer, he could hear the constant tinny babbling coming from the other end of the line.

Belle pulled the phone away from her face. "Listen to this," she mouthed, and then pushed a button, filling his house with a voice he had hoped never to hear inside of it.

"—never motorboated a kindergarten teacher before, and I think I'm in love with her, and Belle, you have to help me, love, I think I'm dying—"

"Are you drunk?" Gold asked, before he could consider the fact that this was a phone call, and that Jones would not be expecting his voice.

His rambling halted.

"Hook?" Belle asked, looking like she was putting forth a valiant effort not to laugh. Gold might have felt similarly, were he not still irked about having his moment interrupted. Now, he would have to wait for a new moment, and it was unlikely that it would happen a fourth time in one night.

"Oh god, Belle, are you at Gold's? Sorry, I didn't realize. Do you need me to bring you a condom? Because I will. I can bring you a box of condoms and I don't mind doing it, because I love you and you're the best friend I've ever had. I'm going to go get some right now. I think I have some flavored—"

"Killian!" Belle's voice was almost a screech, and her face was redder than he'd ever seen it. It did much to soothe his ire. "I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Belle, this is serious, I need to know. I will be there in ten minutes unless you give me the signal. Do you remember the signal, Belle?"

Perhaps Belle was too embarrassed to remember to take her phone off speaker, but Gold couldn't say that he minded. Red-faced, mortified Belle was adorable, and he couldn't stop his shark's grin from taking over.

"What about Aurora? Didn't you want to tell me about Aurora?"

"Oh god." Jones groaned. "I think I'm in love with her and if I don't see her tomorrow, I'll die."

"Okay, well, I'll call you in the morning, and then we can talk about it, all right?"

"But Belle, the con—"

"Goodnight, Killian." She hung up, muffling whatever it was he was saying, and then refused to look at Gold.

"You didn't want flavored condoms?" he asked, keeping his voice mild. If it weren't for Belle's shame, he never would have brought it up, but he couldn't find himself to be embarrassed if it meant watching her blush.

"Shut up." She glared at him, and then started down the stairs.

"Going somewhere?" He limped after her, still too amused to be alarmed by her behavior.

"I'm going to ice us some cupcakes, and then you're going to sing 'Happy Birthday' to me."

"Oh, I am, am I?" Of course he was. All she had to do was mention that she wanted him to, and he would sing it for her a hundred times.

When they got to the kitchen, she ignored him in favor of her baking, so he set about locating matches and selecting a candle. Soon, they found themselves sitting close together at the table in the darkened room, the three flickering candles in Belle's cupcake being the only source of light.

"You have to sing," she whispered, like she was afraid to talk any louder than that.

He rolled his eyes, and began the song. He didn't have a bad voice, per se, but he wasn't particularly good at carrying a tune, and he was just lucky that it was the sort of song people expected to be botched. When he growled out the last note, Belle closed her eyes. A few seconds later, she opened them and blew the candles out, bathing them in darkness. He clapped.

"Happy birthday, Belle."

He thought she smiled at him, but it was hard to tell in the dark, so he got up to turn the lights on. When he got back, Belle had her face tilted underneath the cupcake, and was biting off the bottom corner.

"What are you doing?" he asked, taking his seat again.

"The top is the best part of the cupcake, so I'm saving it for last."

"I see."

He was not the sort of person who ate cupcakes, preferring to just have a slice of cake, and he looked at his for a bit, wondering how to go about it. He considered getting a fork, but since Belle was attacking her own with the precision and violence of a falcon, he had the feeling she wouldn't stand for that.

Ignoring his sense of delicateness and propriety, he took a bite from the frosted side, managing not to get anything on the corners of his mouth.

"You look like you're in pain," Belle said, watching him like she was trying not to laugh—or perhaps she was just unable to laugh with her mouth so full.

"I'll endure it for your birthday."

Belle finished her cupcake a full minute before he did, and then sat and stared while he ate. "So, am I supposed to wear your gift every day, or only on special occasions?"

The thought of Belle wearing his gift every day was appealing. He shrugged, though, not wanting to give voice to the pride that surged up. "Do you want to wear it every day?"

She nodded, and he bit his tongue to keep his face neutral. "But it had to be expensive, so wearing it every day might be a bad idea, right?"

"It's only a bad idea in your neighborhood."

She pressed her lips together. "So you're saying I should wear it to school, then? It won't distract Dr. Hopper during his lecture?"

"I'm surprised you don't already distract Dr. Hopper."

"Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "I've got the perfect dress to match it."

He was glad of this, and of her enthusiasm—he really was—but he couldn't help thinking that he would rather see her in it naked. Since he hadn't even managed to kiss her yet, and there didn't look to be much hope for that tonight, he resolved not to think about her naked anymore. It would only lead to disappointment.

"I'm glad you're planning outfits already," he said, because it seemed like a safe thing to say.

Belle yawned, then. It was a deliberate yawn, and even Gold could tell that she had started out forcing it, and his mouth filled with saliva. He tried to swallow it before the inevitable—when he would catch her yawn, and it would turn his mouth into a dark cavern of hanging spit stalactites.

"Tired?" He knew this was a stupid question. It was past one, and he was a little surprised that he hadn't been the one to drop first.

"Yeah, a bit."

She looked at him across the table, and his shoulders got heavier. She was going to ask him to take her home, and there would never be a night more perfect than tonight, which meant that he would never kiss her, because he would never find any of these moments again. He would have to wait until her next birthday—or maybe his.

"It's late, though—I don't want you to have to drive me all the way there and back. Could I just sleep on your couch or something?"

For a second, he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. Were they on the same page with this? Did she understand all of his subtle hints about the fact that he wasn't planning on letting her go anywhere? Did she want to stay the night at his house?

Or did she really just want to be polite, and not make him drive across to the poor side of town?

"Of course." His voice came out huskier than he'd intended, but there was nothing he could do other than pretend to have cake in his throat if she asked. "I have plenty of guest rooms."

At this, she raised an eyebrow. "Really? Do you ever have guests?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't sass me, Miss Blue." He stood up to clear away their napkins and the candles.

"Ooh, did I hit a nerve?" She stood after him, trailing him around the kitchen until he started for the stairs.

"Nothing groveling can't fix."

He paused at the foot of the stairs, looking up at them. He never went up and down this much when he was alone, and what with the dancing and the walking and the whole Belle-destroying-his-body-by-biting-her-lip business, the stairs were starting to seem like Mt. Fuji.

"What if I help you up the stairs?" Belle asked, slipping her arm around his waist.

He wrapped his own arm around her shoulders without even thinking, and considered kissing her then, but the timing was wrong and their current positioning would have made it awkward.

"I'll accept it."

There were two empty bedrooms on the second floor. One was next to Gold's, and the other was on the opposite side of the floor. He wished he could lead her to the one next to his, because she was the only guest he wouldn't mind being just a wall away from, but that room was not fit for guests. It had been Baden's room, and the only thing Gold had done there in six years was dust. There was also a guest room downstairs, which was bigger, but he wanted Belle as close to him as possible.

"There are clean towels in the linen closet. You know where that is," he said as they trekked up the stairs. "And the bathroom's next to it. Did you need pajamas?"

She shook her head, letting her arm slip away from him once they reached the top and made a left. "I'll be fine. You'll wake me up for work, yeah?"

His first reaction to that was to wonder whether she would sleep naked, and then the second was to lose complete control of his brain at the thought that, if she did, he would be waking her up while she wasn't wearing any clothes.

Since he couldn't manage anything intelligent, he let out an affirmative grunt. She smiled.

"Great. I'm going to run down and get my purse, okay?"

He nodded, and she whirled and ran off, giving him time to collect himself. He hated that he had to do that so often around Belle—no one ever undid him enough that he had to put forth an effort to stay composed.

Checking the sheets on the bed, and making sure that everything in the guest room was in order helped to calm him. By the time Belle had bounded back up, he was feeling ready to face her.

"Here you are," he said, sweeping his hand out toward the bed.

Belle paused in the doorway, gaze raking over the room. The only room smaller than this one was his study, so Gold didn't have much affection for it, but he supposed he could understand Belle's sudden speechlessness. It was decorated in antiques, just like the rest of his house, with sandy gold silk sheets and a mint green comforter. The bed was queen-sized, and she ran a finger along the edge. He couldn't help but think that this bed was too big for her to be alone in, that it would be better to tuck her safely into his own king-size, with him, but that was a dangerous thought. Besides, he couldn't have decorated this room to suit her more than it did if he tried.

She turned to him and pressed her lips together. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't not a smile, and it twisted something under Gold's ribcage that he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Thank you," she said.

"It's no matter." He took a step backwards, toward the door.

"Are you going to bed?" she asked.

"Ah, I don't know." There was no way he could sleep knowing that she was just across the hall. He'd probably end up tinkering with his trains all night.

They were silent for a few seconds, watching each other. Belle flapped a hand toward the doorway.

"Well, I'm going to wash my face." Her hand flapped toward her dramatic eye shadow.

"Right." He nodded, fumbling backward. "Okay. Well. Have a good night."

She stared at him. Then she ducked her head, and scurried past him toward the bathroom. What did this mean? She didn't say goodnight, but she didn't deny him saying it either. Should he wait? Did she expect him to be standing there when she returned?

He decided that he should get ready for bed, too, and leave his door open so that she could see he wasn't ignoring her. He skipped most of his routine, not wanting to miss the chance to say goodnight to Belle if she wanted him to. The only step he didn't skip, aside from changing into his grey silk pajamas, was washing his face.

When he finished, Belle's bathroom door was still closed. He paced the hallway, knowing that, if he stopped moving, the adrenaline would wear off and he would feel the crushing disappointment of his failure to kiss Belle on her birthday. After about half a minute, it occurred to him that he was dressed as he usually was for bed—topless—so he limped back to his room to acquire an undershirt. She wouldn't want his ancient torso to be the last thing she saw before sleeping. He didn't even want to see it.

Belle emerged as he was done getting dressed. She didn't even look at him, and he was overcome with anxiety over how to call to her and wish her a good night, which was stupid, because, other than "hello," it was probably the most commonplace phrase.

He went with no preamble, calling out, "Goodnight, Belle," from the doorway of his bedroom.

She froze, hunching away from him like he'd thrown something at her, and his insides felt like they'd been mummified. Somehow, he had done something wrong, and now Belle was afraid of him.

When she turned around, though, she didn't look upset. She was chewing her cheek, and wouldn't meet his eyes, but if anything, that looked like guilt to him.

It was then that he looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed that she was no longer wearing the see-through sweater. She was wearing pajamas, and they were her pajamas. He was sure of this fact, because the shirt was pink, and the pants were a deep violet with owls on them, and he knew nothing in his house looked like that.

"Well, goodnight!" Her voice was a high-pitched squeak, and her cheeks were starting to flush as she whirled back around.

"Belle."

He was glad that intimidation came easily to him, and even Belle was not entirely immune. She froze again, pivoting slow enough to allow the shark grin to spread all the way across his face before she saw him.

"I see that you changed."

She straightened up, and her swift change from embarrassed Belle to brave, defiant Belle sent his heart rocketing against his chest.

"Well, I couldn't very well sleep in jeans, could I?"

"Of course not." He leaned against his cane, watching her. It must have been why she'd brought such a large purse, and then been secretive about its contents. She was so prepared and resourceful—so much smarter than everyone he knew.

"Right. Well, I'll just—bed, then?" She jerked her thumb behind her.

"Of course." He nodded. "Sleep well, Belle."

"Goodnight, Raphael." She smiled before turning back to the room. He wanted to watch her go, but was afraid to let her catch him doing so, so he turned around as well.

He wondered if she'd brought a toothbrush as well. She probably had, if she'd brought pajamas, and maybe the purse itself was an overnight bag. He had seen her carry textbooks in it before, as well as leftovers from restaurants, so it would make sense that she would bring it to pack things.

Then, he stopped so short, he almost tripped over his cane. Maybe she hadn't packed it just in case. Maybe she'd planned to stay the night all along. Maybe they really were on the same page, and she had wanted him to kiss her, and now she was walking into her room and feeling the same amount of disappointment and regret that he was, and what the hell was he doing just standing here?

"Belle!" He whirled around, only just managing not to abandon his cane in his haste.

She turned again. "Yes?"

Fuck the right moment. Whatever moment he kissed her was the right moment, and it was going to have to be this one—besides, it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, right? It didn't matter. Momentum was propelling him forward and adrenaline was subduing his knee pain, and Belle was biting her lip up at him, and he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his free arm around her waist and yanking her against him, crushing his lips to hers.

He felt like he'd just set himself on fire, and the heat flooding his face and arms and feet and hands and chest only subsided when Belle's cool fingers found the back of his neck, and pressed against it. It wasn't a particularly romantic kiss, and it was possible that his teeth would hurt when this was over, but it was the most perfect kiss he could imagine, and if he had a heart attack and died at that moment, he wouldn't have been upset in the slightest.

Their mouths were open, but there was no tongue, and he couldn't have coordinated using his even if he'd tried. He dropped his cane, bringing that hand up to tangle in her hair at the back of her head, keeping her there when he pulled his lips away.

They were both breathing like they'd just climbed a mountain, and Gold couldn't tear his eyes away from hers. He never wanted to stop, but there were words he vaguely remembered that he wanted to say, so he settled for pressing one more kiss to her lips.

"You know, I've just remembered something." He was almost proud of how gravelly he sounded. It made him feel a touch more manly.

"Oh?" The hand that wasn't on his neck crept up his chest, and her fingers hooked on the collar of his undershirt. He hoped she'd rip it off. "What's that?"

"All of my guest rooms burned down last week."

Laughter bubbled up out of her lips, and he couldn't go this long without kissing her when she did that, so he kissed her full on the mouth before pressing smaller, lighter kisses along the corner, and up her jaw.

"Guess you'll have to sleep on the couch, then," she said, jerking sideways when he kissed her earlobe.

"Unfortunately, that was victim as well. In fact, my bed is the only one here." He started up the other side, making a detour at her lips again.

"Well," she said, when he let her speak. "If you insist."

He did.


	13. Chapter 13

_ahhhhhhhhhhhh thank you all so much for your reviews and niceness and support and jklsahjfdkg i appreciate all of you_

* * *

Belle woke up to the persistent beep of an alarm clock that wasn't hers. She tried to burrow into the mountain of blankets that she usually slept with to ward off the arctic chill in her apartment, but there was no mountain to burrow in—instead, an arm slid down into the crevice between her neck and shoulder, and a hand flopped over her ear.

She realized that she was warm, not because she had made a blanket fort in her sleep, but because she was in Dr. Gold's bed, and he could afford heat. Also, he was pressed up against her back like a human blanket. When the alarm didn't stop, he groaned and rolled away from her, and the beeping ceased seconds later.

How could she have forgotten that she was here? She knew that sleep was disorienting, but she had been sleeping on her guard for years, and was rarely deep enough in slumber to forget things. It wasn't that she felt unsafe in her apartment—though she did—but there were always loud noises. The more lightly she slept, the less those noises startled her, and the easier it was for her to get back to sleep.

She always slept even worse in strange places, as she suspected most people did. She hadn't expected to get any sort of rest last night, and she probably wouldn't have had she stayed in the guest room. She shifted onto her back as Gold rolled toward her, settling his arm around her waist like a giant handcuff, and she found herself drowsy again.

"Good morning," she whispered, because the logical part of her brain knew that his alarm meant that they would need to go to work soon.

"Good morning, darling." The words rumbled by her neck, and she shivered.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked, though it was a stupid question. It was his giant bed—of course he slept okay.

"I've never slept better." He pressed a kiss to her temple, the only place his lips could reach without him having to move his head. "Did you?"

"Neither have I." She turned her head to kiss him on the chin, then changed course to pretend that she had an itch on the other side of her neck because a horrifying realization hit her.

Kissing was inevitable now that they had spent the night together. This meant that there was one truth, one clear and present danger—morning breath. She couldn't kiss him like this, but she also couldn't reject him if he wanted to kiss her. What was she supposed to do?

He lifted his head to look at her. "Something wrong?"

"Ah—bathroom," she said, forcing herself to sit up, even though she never, ever wanted to move. "I'll be right back."

She tried not to sprint to the guest room, or to notice the way he sat up and looked after her in confusion. He probably expected her to use the bathroom connected to his bedroom, like a sane person, but she needed her purse, and it had not received the same room upgrade that she had.

Once Raphael had invited her over, she'd known that she wouldn't be leaving until morning. It had been some of the most stressful four-to-five minutes of her life, running upstairs to pack under the pretense of changing her clothes. It meant that she had to change her clothes, and also only take the amount of time that it took to do that. Thus, she'd had to pack carefully—toothbrush and toothpaste, hairbrush, and a camisole to wear under the see-through sweater, because only Raphael got the view she'd provided last night.

When she finished in the bathroom and returned to the bedroom, he was gone, and his own bathroom door was closed. This was the perfect opportunity to make up for her less than ceremonious exit a few minutes ago, so she nestled herself in the blankets to wait for him.

Upon emerging, he took one look at her, and then was back in bed faster than she'd ever expect a man with a limp to move.

"I didn't leave," she said, hoping that he wouldn't be upset with her for thinking that he was worried.

"Good." He tugged at the blankets until they covered both of them, and then wound himself around her, tucking her head up under his chin.

She'd never put much thought into whether or not she fit with a man. She had the tendency to date big, hulking, Gaston-like people, and they dwarfed her whenever they cuddled—if they ever cuddled. Gold was slight, though, and she fit in his embrace like a key to a lock. She knew that she was the perfect size to him, too. Other women were all taller, wider, bigger, but he could wrap his arms around her and tuck her head under his chin, and they fit.

"What time is it?" she asked, turning to press her lips to his Adam's apple.

"7:46."

She raised her head, propping herself up on her elbow to glare at him. "Really? You get up before eight?"

He shrugged. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

She flattened her mouth into a line. "How about sleep? I was comfortable until your alarm rang."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Well, my apologies, darling. Resetting my alarm wasn't exactly forefront in my mind when I went to bed last night."

Her cheeks warmed, and she settled back down onto the bed, tucking herself against him. "I guess I forgive you. Can I make breakfast?"

"Why are you asking my permission?"

She chewed her lip, and he lifted himself to look at her. "You just want to play in my kitchen, don't you?"

"That is exactly what I want."

"Well, that can be arranged." He shifted until she was lying beneath him, his body tented over hers while he supported himself on his elbows. A lazy grin spread across his face, and Belle bit her lip. "But it'll cost you."

"Oh?"

He had effectively pinned her down, though the only parts of his body he was touching her with were the top of his right leg, and the sides of his elbows. Since she could still move her arms, she wiggled one away from her so that she could slide her hand up Gold's cheek.

"What's your price?" She leaned up and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes.

"More of that, for one." He was hoarse, and it made Belle's toes flex.

"Done." She kissed the other side of his mouth, then his lower lip, and then his top lip. When she leaned back into the pillow, his head followed her, until he opened his eyes and cleared his throat.

"The full price is doing this all day."

"How can I make breakfast if we're doing this?" she asked, pressing her fingers against the back of his head so that he would come to her, and she wouldn't have to strain her neck.

"You're a clever girl. You'll figure something out," he said, before pressing his lips to hers.

* * *

They'd ended up calling in a breakfast order to Granny's so that they could pick it up on the way to work. Belle had not been able to tear herself away from his lips, and judging by the way he felt pressed against her—and the way his hands convulsively clutched at her when they kissed, like he was fighting to keep them from roving—he felt the same.

He'd insisted that she stay in the car when they got to the diner, so she'd taken the opportunity to call Hook. It was 9:30, which meant that he would probably be sleeping off the alcohol, and Belle was just spiteful enough to be glad of it.

He picked up on the sixth ring, right before his phone went to voicemail.

"'Lo?"

"Hi!" Belle said, forcing brightness and volume. Hook groaned.

"Belle. No. Sleep."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this a bad time?"

"Not sure. Depends on whether or not I throw up."

Belle felt a tiny twinge of guilt. He may have embarrassed her last night, but his interruption had done no lasting damage. Sure, it delayed the kissing, but it might have made their first kiss all the better because of it. It certainly hadn't made her throw up. Stupid guilt.

"Sorry. I'm on my way to work and I thought you wanted to talk?"

"I have to see Aurora. Let's go on a group date. You can bring your crocodile."

"I can't do that." It was a terrible idea on too many levels, the least of which being putting Hook and Gold at the same table for the second time.

"You must be exhausted." It sounded like Hook was waking up, his voice getting stronger. "Did he have to pop a Viagra first?"

"Oh, god." Belle went red to the tips of her toes. "We didn't have sex!"

"What? Why not? Was it because you didn't have condoms? Because I distinctly remember offering to bring you some."

"No!" She knew Hook wouldn't understand that kissing had been special and precious enough, and that sleeping cuddled up to him was perfect.

"Ugh. Tell me there was at least hands stuff."

The door to Granny's opened, and Raphael walked out, a plastic bag dangling on his arm and a coffee cup tray in his free hand. Belle turned so red, she was sure that he would notice.

"Killian, I am not having this conversation with you. And I have to go—Raphael's back."

"Okay, but we're having this conversation later. If I can't sleep with you, I at least want to know what it's like."

"Good_bye_, Killian." She hung the phone up just as Raphael reached the car. In an effort to get the color to recede from her face, she bit her tongue, and was reasonably sure that she might get away with it once he saw her.

Then, he saw her, and she knew that he knew.

"What's wrong?" he asked, passing the bag to her, and then the coffee.

"Oh, nothing. Just paying Hook back for calling last night."

He climbed in, settling his cane on the seat behind him. Once he was buckled and ready to back out, he rested his hand on the gear shift and looked at her.

"What did he say about me?"

"Nothing about you, per se." She leaned over to kiss him, and he met her halfway, moving his hand from the stick to her thigh. Working was going to be difficult if they couldn't keep their lips to themselves.

After a few seconds, he pulled back to stare at her. Then, his lip curved, and she blushed all over again. "I see."

"We should get to work," she said, reaching to squeeze his hand before moving it back to the gear shift. "We'll be late."

"Mm," he said, and Belle chose to ignore the way he looked near chuckles in favor of pretending that he had no idea what her conversation with Hook had been about.

The drive to school took about two minutes, and Belle was glad that Raphael never asked for more clarification. When they got out, he insisted on carrying the breakfast bag, so she put their coffees back in the tray and carried those, because she wanted him to have a free hand.

They gravitated together as they walked, and by the time they were a parking space away from the car, they were close enough that their hands and arms brushed. Belle bit her lip to keep her face impassive, and when she glanced at Raphael's profile, his neck muscles stood out from the way he was clenching his jaw. He seemed to be content with them brushing together, but when Belle took it a step further and linked her pinky through his, he yanked his hand away and drifted sideways.

For a second, Belle fought the urge to laugh. Then, the fact that he had just recoiled from her sunk in, and she jumped sideways. She felt like her heart was collapsing into a black hole inside of her, and she tried to shove that away—there had to be a logical explanation for why he was now watching her like she was going to bite him, and why she suddenly repulsed him. She swallowed, and forced herself to look neutral.

"Belle," he said, scooting back next to her. "Belle, we can't."

"Because you're ashamed of me?" She was overreacting. She knew this, and yet she couldn't help that it scared her a little.

"No." He reclaimed his place next to her so fiercely, the thump of his cane echoed through the parking lot. "If anything, you should be ashamed of me."

Some of the clamminess receded to be replaced by a fuzzier sort of heat. "Is that why? I could never be ashamed of you, Raphael."

"I'm too selfish to care if you're ashamed of me, darling." He slid his arm around her, palm ghosting over the small of her back, and this soothed her pride a little bit.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Look at where we are." He gestured toward the school with his cane. "I am largely responsible for whether or not you get your Ph.D. I don't want anyone to think I've made a deal for your grades."

She was a little miffed that his explanation was so logical, and also that it struck such a chord within her. She leapt away from him, and he let out a humorless chuckle.

"It's all right if people think we're friends who date casually, but it can't be more than that. They can't see that we're—" He cleared his throat and looked away, and Belle was sure that she saw his ears turning red before he shook his hair out to cover them.

"But we're not!" she said, biting her lip.

He whipped his head back to stare at her, looking like a puppy who'd just watched someone eat a steak. "We're not?"

Belle glanced away, the blush showing up so much more on her pale skin than on his. "Well, not yet."

He let out a slightly hysterical chuckle, and when she looked back at him, he was looking away again.

They didn't look at each other at all on the walk inside, though Belle managed to school her expression into neutrality instead of awkward avoidance by the time they made it to the door. He held it for her, and she was careful not to let her body brush his.

"Should I stay in my cubicle this morning?" she asked, lowering her voice so that the quiet chatter in the hallway masked it.

"I don't think that's necessary."

They stood in front of the elevator in silence. Despite the fact that it was a Friday and most people didn't have class, the elevator took four minutes to get to the first floor. Belle chewed her lip, watching Gold's fingers tap the head of his cane with increasing speed as the minutes wore on, stopping only when the elevator binged its arrival.

By the time the doors closed behind them, Gold had her pressed against the wall, gripping her hip like he was afraid she'd float away. Their tongues clashed in clumsy, violent need, and Belle was so overwhelmed so quickly that she broke away with a gasping laugh.

"I thought we had to be sneaky," she whispered, as though they weren't in a sealed elevator.

"I don't see anyone looking." He ducked his head, grazing his lips along her jaw line. "Besides, the deal was all day."

"Ah, but I never got to play in the kitchen." She forced herself to keep her eyes open, even though she just wanted to lean back and close them while he touched his lips to every sensitive point on her neck.

"Tonight." He returned to her lips just as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. "Then our deal will be fulfilled."

She slipped away from him and out the door, and he took longer than usual to make his way out as well. His office was tucked away back in a labyrinth of hallways—probably to dissuade visitors—and the walk was quieter and quieter the deeper into the building they went.

Once they reached his office and Belle had set the coffee down, she turned to him and chewed her lip. "I can't tonight. Once we leave here, I'm spending the day with Mulan."

He looked at her for a few seconds before turning away and shuffling the first thing he could grab on his desk. "Right. Of course. So, ah—when are you leaving?"

"After lunch, I guess. I need to call her. Do you want to go anywhere in particular?"

He looked at her like her question surprised him, like after spending the night in his house and kissing him in an elevator, she would somehow not want to continue to eat meals with him.

"Wherever you'd like," he murmured, setting down the papers he'd grabbed. He reached for his food with slow, careful motions, like it was something he needed to concentrate on and therefore he could not direct his attention at her. "Should I expect you tomorrow?"

In her effort to keep her snorting laughter in check, she ended up making a whinnying noise in the back of her throat. Raphael looked at her like he wasn't sure whether to be concerned or amused. How could he think that she was just going to ignore him? She almost wished that they hadn't been pseudo-dating for weeks so that he would have to ask her out. That way, she'd be able to say yes, and alleviate all of his worries.

"You should, unless you plan on kicking me out before midnight," she said, hoping he would catch her drift. When he just blinked at her, eyes narrowed in confusion, she sighed. "I'll come over tonight. After dinner?"

"Oh." He stared at her before ducking his head and going back to moving the box of food around on the desk. "Right."

Satisfied, Belle took her seat, pulling her own box toward her and lifting the lid.

"How do you know I want you there?" Raphael asked.

Belle looked up, preparing her retort, and then did a double-take of the contents in her box. It was French toast, as she'd requested, but it was not in Granny's usual style. Belle liked hers with powdered sugar and fruit, if possible. She was forever scraping butter off when they brought it, despite her constant reminders that she wanted none, and using granulated sugar packets because a waitress other than Ruby or Granny was working at the time, and didn't bring her any powdered.

This order of French toast was sprinkled with the perfect amount of powdered sugar. There were sliced strawberries garnishing it, and she imagined that it would have looked quite pretty before the car ride and theatrics in the parking lot. Either Raphael had done this, or Raphael had threatened to get this done for him. When she looked up, he was watching her like she might explode.

"I'll bring dinner," she said, and the smile he tried to hide was enough to sate her for the afternoon.

* * *

Hook had somehow coerced his way into being invited that afternoon. Most of his arguments had centered around not wanting Aurora to be a third wheel, once he figured out that wanting to have sex with her would not sway Belle's opinion. She was meeting him in front of Granny's now, before they met the other women, so that she could give him a pre-outing lecture. He only had to behave for three hours—once Belle had told Mulan that she had unbreakable dinner plans, Mulan had decided that they should leave tonight, instead of early the next morning.

He surprised her from behind, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and winning himself a yelp of surprise.

"Hey," she said. When she tried to pull away and face him, he kept his arm around her, facing her only in profile.

"Hello, love. All right, here's the plan for Aurora. I'm going to distract her so that you and Mulan can bond, and afterwards, she's going to be smitten."

Belle decided that her time would be better spent watching the street for signs of her friends than trying to convince Hook that he was crazy, so she just rolled her eyes and let him keep talking.

"Did you do this when you met me?"

He stopped mid-way through a story about a similarly prude woman that he'd had once, his profile looking surprised to have been interrupted. "Of course not. You were easy. You gave me your phone number right away."

Belle puckered like she'd swallowed a lemon, and turned to look at him**. **He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hand open like a shield for the other side of his face. He was acting so strangely today, but Belle was more focused on what he was saying now.

"You think I'm easy?" She chewed her lip. Maybe everyone thought she was easy. Maybe that was why all of her previous boyfriends were the worst.

"Well, you're certainly easy to get along with." He squeezed her shoulder.

"That's not a real answer." She knew she wasn't easy. She did. She wasn't.

"Look, Belle, that's not what I m—"

He turned toward her and she cut him off with a tiny shriek, hands flying to her face. The splotchy bruise around his right eye was so purple, it was almost black, and his eye was swollen half-shut. He refused to look at her, instead pointing his face toward the ground and shaking the fringe of hair over his forehead to cover it.

"What happened?" She wanted to touch it, make sure it was all right, but she was afraid of hurting him more.

"Nothing, love." He laughed, and Belle narrowed her eyes.

"You didn't have a black eye when I saw you fourteen hours ago."

He ran a hand through his hair, biting his lip like he was fighting to hold words in. "God, fine, I was in a bar fight, okay?"

"Why didn't you tell me when you called me?" She folded her arms.

"Because it happened right after we hung up."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He still wouldn't meet her eyes, though.

She watched him for a few seconds, while his hand drifted from his nose to his hair and back again over and over. There was something he wasn't telling her.

"Who was the fight with?"

He stared at her for a second as if he wasn't quite sure she was there. "Some guy."

Belle narrowed her eyes. "Which guy?"

"What makes you think I knew him?" He folded his arms, and Belle was about to list all of his suspicious behavior as valid reasoning, but then he threw his arm out. "Aurora's here!"

"This conversation isn't over," Belle said, before turning to greet Mulan.

* * *

Three and a half hours later, Belle had bid Mulan an almost-tearful goodbye, and she and Hook sat alone at a booth in Granny's, drinking milkshakes. She decided not to mention the fact that he was staring off into space until he was so unfocused that he chased his straw around the glass three times.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I gave Aurora my phone number."

"You gave her yours?"

"I know." He shook his head, snatching his straw and shoving it into his mouth. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

"I would like to know what got into you last night," she said, staring at his eye. "Why did you try to hide it from me? I'd expect you to brag about a bar fight."

"Dammit." He wrinkled his nose. "You know me too well. Fine. The fight was with—" He mumbled something, and Belle leaned forward.

"What was that?"

He mumbled again, sighing when she pursed her lips. "Gaston. It was with Gaston."

Her eyes widened. "He was there?"

"Victor brought him. We all went together. Ruby came, too, and so did a few of my friends. Anyway, Gaston heard me say I was off to call you, and he came outside after and we got into a fight."

"Hook!"

"What?" Hook pressed a hand to his heart. "You should be sorry for me, not mad! I didn't even throw any punches. He knocked me onto the floor in the first go. All I could do was kick his shins. And then I laid there for a bit until Victor came out and took a look at me."

Belle tried not to snicker at Hook's look of outrage, and instead reached across the table to pat him on the hand.

"I'm sorry that he punched you, but really, I am glad that you didn't start it. Would you like me to go beat him up?"

"No." Hook clucked his tongue, looking away. "I don't need some tiny little thing fighting my battles for me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're all tiny and delicate, and I'm supposed to be big and strong enough to protect both of us." He gestured at himself. "So next time I see your man, I'll punch him myself."

"He's not my man," Belle said, chewing her lip to keep from smiling. "And you shouldn't go around punching people."

Hook leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Speaking of men—you never told me about your crocodile."

"There's nothing to tell," she said, but she could feel the blush rising in her cheeks.

"Come on, you can tell me anything." He fluttered his eyelashes, and Belle looked down at the table, shaking her head.

"Really, there's nothing. We kissed, and then spent the night in the same bed."

"Naked?"

She shook her head. "He was even wearing a shirt the whole time."

"This is the most boring story. Did you at least do things on his desk?" He wiggled his eyebrows.

"No! We have to be subtle at work. I can't even tell Ruby or Mary Margaret, except to say that sometimes, we go on dates. But they already knew that."

"Yeah, whatever." Hook waved a hand, looking at her like he was trying to solve a riddle. "You have ugly underwear, don't you?"

Belle's jaw sagged, and she drew her eyebrows together. "What does that—" She stopped, considering the question, and then her underwear. She had been wearing the same group of plain, cotton bikinis for about five years, and she had never before cared what sort of bra she got, as long as it was hidden under her clothing and cheap.

"Oh." She chewed her lip. "Oh, shoot. I've never cared about what people think of my underwear before."

"Right. We're going shopping, then." Hook stood up, sucking down the rest of his milkshake.

"What?" Belle didn't move, eyes widening. "Can't I go with Ruby?"

"You can't tell Ruby, can you?" He grinned. "Come on, love. It's time we sexed you up."

* * *

This was how Belle found herself at the mall with Hook, sneaking through to the lingerie sections in the hopes that no one would see them. Gold always seemed to be around at the least convenient times, and she wasn't sure that she would be able to explain away Hook's presence while she looked at lacy under things.

He had tried to take her to a lingerie boutique, and then Victoria's Secret, but Belle had ruled those out based on the balance of her bank account, so they ended up at the clearance rack at Macy's.

"What size are you?" Hook asked, holding up a cherry red thong.

"I don't know, a medium?" She shrugged, pulling at a pair with roses all over it. "And I don't wear thongs. What do you think of these?"

"I could be convinced to tear them off of you with my teeth."

"Is that a good thing?" she asked, trying to keep her cheeks from reddening.

"Oh, yes."

"Great." She settled it over her shoulder, and started flipping through the rack again. "I think I have a coupon. Should we look at bras next?"

"This is the best shopping trip I have ever been on." Hook sighed, pulling out a polka dotted pair and laying them over her shoulder as well. "Are you sure you don't want a thong?"

"Positive. How about these?" They were cream, with lacy trim, and prints of more flowers.

"I'm sensing a theme here. Those are edible, too."

She shook her head, forcing herself to keep looking. It took eleven pairs for Hook to be satisfied, and then they moved on to the clearance bra rack. Belle refused to tell him her size, because it was more average than big, and she didn't want him to make fun of her—or to ruin his expectations. Instead, she allowed him to find things for her, and then she would covertly find the right size.

Then, he tried to follow her into the dressing room.

"What are you doing?" She shoved at him, voice rising. "You can't come in!"

"How am I supposed to give my opinion?" he asked, pouting like a child who'd had his ice cream taken away.

"You aren't. I can give myself an opinion. You stay here."

He huffed and he puffed, but he couldn't do anything when she closed and locked the door, so he slid to the floor outside and waited. When she emerged five minutes later, she tossed a pile of the things that had fit at him.

"Do they all meet with your approval?"

He struggled to his feet, arms wrapped around the small pile. "You didn't like the red one?" He pointed to a tiny red thing with rhinestones that she was discarding.

"It didn't fit. And it made me look like a stripper."

"That's not a bad thing, Belle."

"Whatever, we're done. Let's go."

They had to walk through the men's section to find a register, and Belle thought nothing of it until she saw a familiar head above all the racks, and then a second familiar head half a foot below it.

"Oh god," she whispered, freezing.

"What?"

"Shh! Keep your voice down." She grabbed his elbow, yanking him behind a rack of novelty boxers and sleep pants.

"What is your problem?" Hook whispered.

She peeked over and pointed at Gaston's head. Hook crouched even lower as soon as he saw him.

"I feel like all we do is hide from people."

Belle agreed with this, but she didn't want to make herself sound like a crazy person, so she said nothing. "I'm going to get a better view so that we know when he leaves. Hang on."

She shifted around, gripping an orange fleece pant leg for balance. The pants, however, were not sturdy on the rack, and Belle was not as graceful as she'd like to think she was. They came free while she was relying on them for support as she pivoted on her toe, and with a shrieking yelp, Belle fell over.

"Oh my god, you are the clumsiest per—" Hook cut himself off with a strangled gurgle as he fell over Belle in an attempt to pick her up. He groaned and rolled onto his back, blanketed in all of Belle's new lingerie.

Belle took one look at him, and pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from snickering.

"This is your fault." He lifted his head, seemed to think better of it, and laid back down.

"I'm very sorry."

"Hey, are you guys—oh."

Belle and Hook looked up into Gaston's face, which had looked worried until he saw who he was concerned about. Belle could see how this might look bad—she and Hook lying together on the floor, next to boxers, covered in underwear. Still, she didn't think that it was a good enough reason for the way Gaston's face darkened, and fists clenched.

"You must really like being on your back."

It took Belle a second of pure anger at the implications of that to realize that this was not directed at her, but at Hook. Hook tried to lunge for Gaston, snarling, but his arm was trapped beneath Belle's.

Gaston snorted, and Belle started to struggle up herself to give him a piece of her mind—doing so last night had felt good—but then Hook made a noise like an enraged lion and kicked out, sweeping Gaston's legs from out beneath him.

* * *

Four minutes later, Belle, Hook, and Gaston were all sitting in the tiny security office. After Hook and Gaston had begun rolling around on the floor, screaming like hyenas, the one security officer had called for backup. It took three of them plus Belle to drag the men apart, and then the third officer had turned against her, holding her arms behind her back and walking her along with the other men to a holding room.

In addition to his black eye, Hook was now sporting a split lip, a bloody hand, and a blossoming bruise on his cheek. Gaston was lucky that he'd caught himself on a clothes rack, or he'd have been unconscious. Instead, his nose looked a little worse for wear.

Belle, who had been instrumental in stopping the scuffle—for neither of the men was willing to hit her—was not happy to be treated like a criminal as well. The man holding onto her wrists had also collected all of her purchases, and was clutching them in his free hand.

Part of her wanted to cry at the fact that someone thought she was breaking the law, which she had never done before, but another part wanted to rage against this mall cop, fondling all of her underwear. She settled for raging in the politest way she could.

"Is this really necessary, sir?" She looked back at her captor, and he squeezed her wrists. It made her skin crawl. "This obviously wasn't my fault."

"Well, ma'am, I'm afraid that, until we figure out what part you played in starting it, we're going to have to take you in."

"You're just fucking mall cops," Hook said, almost wrenching himself away from the plump guard securing him. "It's not like you can do anything."

"I wouldn't be so disrespectful if I were you."

The guards shoved the three of them into the office, prodding them until they were all seated. The man who'd been holding Belle—whose nametag read 'GARRICK HORDOR'—went around securing their hands behind their backs with shoelaces.

"I don't think this is legal," Belle said, scowling. "And I didn't do anything. Can't you just restrain them?"

"Oh, thanks, just throw me under the bus," Hook said, glaring as Officer Hordor stroked the back of Belle's wrist. She tried to fidget away, but she was smaller than everyone else in the room, and she fit snugly around the chair.

"This is all your fault, Belle," Gaston said.

"Excuse me? How is this my fault?" She jumped in her chair to get it to face him, glaring. "You are the one who decided to pick a fight. Tell me—was punching him worth this hassle? Was it necessary? And you." She lurched the chair toward Hook. "Couldn't you have just left well enough alone? Did _you_ think it was worth it?"

For the first time, Hook and Gaston exchanged looks that weren't filled with rage. Then, they both shrugged.

"Yeah, pretty much," Hook said, Gaston nodding along.

Belle glared, then jumped her chair around and away from both of them. "If this makes me late to see Raphael, you will both wish that this had never happened."

"Who the hell is that?" Gaston asked, but Belle just turned away more, tugging at her stupid shoelace bonds.

"Ah, ah, ah," Hordor said, coming to perch on the table next to her. "Don't make me hold onto you myself." He rested a booted foot on the bottom rung of her chair.

"This is ridiculous," she informed him, wishing his knees weren't touching hers. "I didn't do anything. I helped you break it up. Could you please just untie me and let me go buy my things?" The pile of lingerie was sitting on the edge of the table, and she pointed her nose at it.

Hordor was quiet for a second, leering at her, and Belle consider leaping backwards towards Hook. "I could be persuaded to let you go."

"Ew," Hook said, voice raised. "You're supposed to be keeping people safe, not hitting on them."

The other security guards seemed to have gone temporarily deaf, and kept their attention focused on Gaston and Hook.

"All I'm saying is that it doesn't need to be this way." He shrugged.

Belle was sure that, were Raphael there, he would have a few things to say to the mall cop. He might even say them with his cane. She wished she could call him, but with her hands tied, she wouldn't be calling anyone. Instead, she tilted her head back over the chair to look at Hook.

"Dr. Gold is going to be so angry."

It was like she'd thrown a bucket of ice over the guards. All three of them turned to look at her. Hordor was the only one who didn't look frightened, and instead, continued to leer.

"Dr. Gold. Really? Is that your best shot at freedom?"

"I'm sorry?" Belle frowned. "What are you talking about?"

But Hook seemed to understand something better than she did, because he scooted his chair closer and raised his voice. "He's very fond of her. You better hope he doesn't find out she's here."

"We should let her go," the pudgy guard said. "I need this job. I got kids."

"Don't worry, Anthony. They're bluffing." Hordor flashed Belle his teeth. "You can't name drop to get what you want in here, babe."

"This isn't jail, for fuck's sake," Hook said. "You literally have no power. The only thing you can do is call the real cops."

Hordor did not seem bothered by this. "Which we did."

Belle was bothered. "But I haven't done anything! I should be allowed a phone call. Can I have a phone call? I'll call Dr. Gold and he'll come get me."

"Oh, sure, you'll call Dr. Gold." Hordor chuckled. "How far are you going to take this lie?"

"Pretty far," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just untie one hand, and you can tie my other to the chair."

He considered this for a few seconds, then hopped off the table. "Fine. I'll call your bluff."

He touched her hands and forearms far more than necessary to untie and retie her wrists, but she was soon free to reach for her cell phone. She hated to use her association with him to get out of things, but it seemed to be the only way that she wasn't going to be arrested for doing nothing.

"So who are you actually calling?" Hordor asked once she'd dialed, and had the phone pressed to her ear. "Parents? Friend? No one?"

Gold picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hi. I hate to ask this, but can you come to Macy's?"

Hordor still did not look convinced.

"Macy's? Do you need money?"

"No, no." She shook her head. "I'm in the security office."

There was silence. Then, "I'm on my way."

She hung up and stuffed the phone back into her pocket, feeling smug. As soon as her hands were free, Hordor was back at her side, tying her wrist to the chair with a whole new lace.

"He's on his way," she said, and Hordor snorted.

"Sure he is, sweetheart."

The pudgy officer, however, was not so quick to dismiss her. He inched around the side of the room, followed by the third. "Well, it looks like you got this under control, Garrick. I'll be seeing you." They were gone before Hordor could reprimand them.

It was not a comfortably silent seven minutes that they sat there. For the most part, Hordor leered at Belle, making a comment or wiggling his eyebrows every other minute, while Hook and Gaston took turns trying to knock each other's chairs down. Belle would have happily endured this for longer, as long as it meant that the real cops hadn't arrived yet.

When the door flew open, Hordor looked up in delight. All the color drained from his face, however, when he saw that it was Dr. Gold standing there, looking calm and blank.

"Dr. Gold," Hordor said, leaping off the table.

"What is going on here?"

"I helped him break up a fight between those idiots, and he arrested me," Belle said, glaring at the guard.

Gold turned to Hordor, both hands clasped over the head of his cane. "Untie her. Now."

"What about me?" Hook asked, while Hordor scrambled around to the back of Belle's chair.

Gold ignored him. "Don't touch her more than necessary."

Once Belle was free, she rubbed her wrists and stood up. Gold limped over to her, curling his arm around her waist. She was tempted to just leave, since associating with Gold apparently gave her immunity, but she felt bad leaving when Hook was just sitting there, bleeding all over his face.

"Killian was just defending my honor," she whispered, though this was not strictly true.

Hordor looked like he would have liked to tie Gold up, too, but the guard waited while he surveyed the room, eyes landing on Hook.

"Untie him, too." Gold pointed his chin. "And leave the other one."

Once Hook was free, he picked up Belle's merchandise and handed it to her. Without thinking, Belle took it, and it was only when Gold's arm tensed around her waist that she realized what was happening, and all of her hard work at picking out lingerie with which to surprise him was all for naught.

"Well, we'll be leaving now," Gold said, voice strangely hoarse. "See to it that you never touch my girlfriend again."

Hordor and Gaston both gaped as Gold turned Belle to lead her out, Hook lurching along behind them. Belle tried to hold in her smile at being called his girlfriend—after all, he may have just been saying that to upset the men in the room.

"Did you still need to get that?" he asked, glancing toward the bundle in her arms.

"Oh." She flushed. "Well—well, yes, I do. Would you mind, um, waiting outside?"

He raised an eyebrow, but she held her ground, face going redder by the second. He hadn't seen the pile in detail, and she'd be damned if she was going to let him watch a cashier scan and fold each item. After ten full seconds, he gave in.

"All right. I went grocery shopping. Do you want to come over once you're settled?"

She smiled. "I do. I'll meet you outside?"

He nodded. "First, I'm going to have a little chat with the security."

Belle could not argue with this, so she leaned over to peck him on the cheek before rushing off to a cash register. Hook followed, having a bit of trouble walking.

"You know," he said, sidling up next to her once she reached the counter. "I think I'm going to have to start being nicer to the crocodile. Maybe not include dick drawings with my monthly checks."

Belle shook her head, unloading her arms. "I think you need to take up yoga or something. You have too much rage."

"So are you going to have gratitude sex with him tonight?"

The cashier looked like she was trying not to be interested in the question as well, and Belle found herself blushing again.

"Shut up. Stay out of my sex life."

"Can't. I know what you're underwear looks like now."

He winked at her, and Belle considered punching his other eye until that one, too, was swollen shut.


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks to everyone who's been reading! I'm glad you all like it so much :D _

* * *

They spent the weekend alternating between the bed and the kitchen, only venturing out Saturday morning for groceries and a full set of _I Love Lucy_ DVDs. It was a rare occasion that they went any longer than the average episode time without making out. Belle wasn't sure whether or not it was too early for her to just leave a toothbrush in his bathroom, but she kept it in her travel bag just in case it was, even though Raphael did not seem inclined to let her go home any time soon.

When the alarm rang at 7:30 Monday morning, Belle couldn't protest, because Raphael had an early class to teach. He shut it off with a groan, then sat up to rub his eyes. They had become unaccustomed to getting out of bed in general over the weekend, and Belle didn't relish the idea of leaving her blanket tomb.

"Do you really need an hour and a half to get ready?" she asked, peeking up at him over the sheets.

He sat still for a few seconds, then leaned over to fiddle with his alarm. "I think I can afford to lose half an hour." He wrapped himself around her, and then the alarm was beeping again all too soon and they were both groaning themselves upright.

"All right, all right, I'll get out of bed." Belle stretched, trying to snuggle back into his side.

"That's not getting out of bed, sweetheart."

"Are you sure you want to? Is it really worth it?"

He rested his chin on top of her head, hands clasped over his stomach. "It's going to take more than you pouting up at me to convince me to sacrifice my reputation."

"Is it?" She reached for his hands, forcing her fingers between his so that he would have to hold them. "Because you're not looking at me, and if you were so sure you could resist, you would be."

She felt his head move on top of hers, but he still couldn't see her face.

"I'm going to shower, and leave you here to consider your next move," he said, disentangling himself. "Because you have lost this round."

"I'll rally the troops," she said.

When he emerged from the bathroom clad only in his boxers, toweling his hair dry, Belle was still in bed in her pajamas, but she had been joined by a tray with tea, toast, jelly, and strawberries. He shook his hair out, pausing when his eyes fell on the display.

"What kind of jelly would you like this morning?" she asked, voice prim as she lifted the butter knife.

"Blackberry. And I'll eat while I get dressed."

She had counted on this, and was prepared to combat him, but all she did for the moment was agree and start to jelly his toast for him. She knew that he took forever to pick things out from his closet before ever putting anything on, so she waited until he was about to emerge before smearing jelly on her lips, and letting a drop fall to her neck.

"Oh, shoot, it's getting everywhere," she said, which got his attention.

"Are the sheets—" He froze, watching her, and then dropped his armful of Dolce and Gabbana onto his dresser before crawling back into bed next to her. "Fine." He leaned down to lick the side of her neck. "You win this round. Give me the jelly."

* * *

She left him rushing to his classroom at 9:25, the latest he claimed to have ever been. She didn't even get the chance to kiss him goodbye, because they were riding the elevator up with some of his students. Her neck was a bit stickier than usual, though she'd tried to clean it off at the house, so after walking Raphael to his classroom so that he could avoid any awkward interactions with the girls going in the same direction, she headed for the bathroom.

Ruby and Mary Margaret ambushed her the second the door closed, like they'd been hiding around the corner, waiting for her. Belle jumped, glad that she'd left her bag on the bench outside, because it was likely that she'd have spilled everything.

"Good m—"

"We have to talk to you," Ruby said, sidling up to her left while Mary Margaret took her right.

"Oh?"

Mary Margaret nodded her agreement. Belle was almost positive that this would be about Raphael, and she prepared her explanations. As much as she wanted to tell someone that she had spent the weekend being lazy in bed with him, that someone couldn't be Ruby. She'd have to wait for Hook.

Ruby checked to make sure the bathroom was otherwise empty before glaring at her in the mirror. "What's going on with you and Dr. Gold?"

"Nothing!" She made a mental note to practice lying sometime, because she was still terrible at it. Ruby and Mary Margaret each raised an eyebrow. "We're just casually dating. It's very casual."

Mary Margaret's eyes widened, but Ruby's narrowed, and Belle knew she was never going to be able to wash her neck now.

"So you're sleeping together?"

Belle went pink. "No!" That, at least, wasn't a lie. Yet. "We just go out sometimes. He's lonely, you know? And we were already going to lunch every day. Is dinner that different?"

Ruby considered this, exchanging looks with Mary Margaret. Belle wished she knew what the consensus they came to was, but Ruby was much better at concealing her thoughts.

"That makes sense, yeah." She shrugged. "Okay."

Belle tried not to visibly relax. "Great."

"Does he want to come tomorrow?"

Belle blinked, turning to look at Ruby's actual face, instead of the one in the mirror. "What? What's tomorrow?"

"Halloween," Mary Margaret supplied, pursing her lips. "You can't leave me alone to match Hook."

"Oh, shoot." Belle chewed her lip. She didn't think Raphael would appreciate anything about Halloween, much less going out to a bar with her friends. "I don't know."

"Well, if you're just casually dating, then he can't stop you from going," Ruby pointed out.

Belle had to admit that she was a clever one.

"Well, of course I'll be there," she said, trying to hide the fact that she had been considering skipping out. "I just don't know about Dr. Gold."

"We'll invite him." The smile Ruby gave her was all fangs. Belle tried not to shrink away.

"I don't know—"

"Well, you said he was lonely, right? So it would be a nice gesture if we invited him." Ruby shrugged, and Belle did not know how to respond to this. She had been bested.

"Well, all right. He's in class right now, but he'll be done at—"

"10:45, I know."

Belle met Ruby's gaze, and then deflated with a sigh of air. "All right. I'm going to go get some grading done, then."

"Great!" Ruby squeezed her arm. "See you later, then."

She and Mary Margaret disappeared as quickly as they'd arrived, leaving Belle to sponge off her neck. Once she was clean, she retrieved her bags and all but ran down to her cubicle. She wasn't hiding from Dr. Gold, per se, but she did think it would be best if she wasn't around when he was ambushed.

When Jefferson walked by and saw her in her cubicle, he did a double-take.

"Trouble in paradise, Bluebell?"

She looked up from her book, wary of the grin Jefferson was giving her. "Paradise?"

"You're not in Dr. Gold's office." He rapped his fingers on her desk. "Something wrong again?"

Again? She had almost forgotten that it had been less than a week since she had last been in her cubicle. She felt like she'd spent months in Raphael's bed.

"Ruby wants to invite him out with us on Halloween. I don't want to be there for it." It made her sound so much more like a coward when said out loud, and Jefferson's raised eyebrow only cemented that fact. She groaned. "I should warn him, shouldn't I?"

"Just think of how funny it'll be if you don't."

If Jefferson approved of something, it usually meant that Belle didn't, so she pursed her lips and dived for her phone, decided. Jefferson whistled as he walked off to his cubicle.

Raphael wasn't finished with class yet, so the best she could do was send a text and hope that he got it before Ruby got to him.

_There's a surprise waiting for you in your office_.

She paused to consider that this may give him the wrong impression, but then reasoned that, if she gave him the right impression, there was nothing to stop him from avoiding his office for the rest of the afternoon, and then Ruby would interrogate her, and she was not sure how much longer she could hold up under the pressure.

An hour later, her phone buzzed.

_Come to my office immediately. I have an important matter to discuss with you._

Did that mean that Ruby had asked him already, or did he actually have an important matter to discuss with her? Maybe he was just concerned that she had not been in his office. If Ruby hadn't been waiting for him, he must have thought she was rejecting his company.

"Shoot," she said, stuffing her book into her bag before rushing out of the room so quickly, all of the bag's contents almost spewed out.

She took the stairs, tripping more times than she cared to admit, and flew into Raphael's office with her chest heaving. He was standing by the door, and had to press himself to the wall to avoid being snagged by her runaway book bag.

"In a hurry?" He shut the door, then just stood and watched her get her things settled around her usual chair.

"Didn't want you to feel neglected!" She perched on the edge of his desk, clasping her hands in her lap.

"I see." He walked over to her, leaning on the arm of her abandoned chair. "That wasn't the surprise I was expecting."

"What surprise?" She just wanted to make sure that Ruby had already asked him, and that something else hadn't happened. She didn't want to give it away if he didn't already know.

"Imagine my shock when I came back to my office to find Miss Lucas and Miss Blanchard instead of you."

Belle pressed her lips together, tapping her ankles against his desk. "And did you have a nice chat?"

He looked at her without moving just long enough that she started chewing her lip. He clasped both hands over the head of his cane, and then something in his face shifted, and he was no longer really looking at her. "Do you not want me there tomorrow? Is that why you never mentioned it?"

It had not occurred to Belle the impression that having Ruby ask him might leave, and she cursed herself for not thinking of it. She was going to have to take better note of his insecurity in the future.

"Of course I want you there." She hopped off the table, reaching for his hand before she had steadied herself. His hand met hers halfway there, squeezing hard so that she could use it to stabilize. "I didn't think you would want to go."

"And you thought the best way to convince me was to have someone else invite me?" He kept his hand in hers, but made no motion to pull her closer or tighten his grip.

"No, of course not." She pulled herself over to him, and squeezed his fingers. "But I couldn't tell Ruby about us, so she thought she was being friendly. Besides, I'm awful at lying and it's getting really hard to keep Ruby out of the loop."

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. His eyebrows knitted together and for a few seconds, he was silent. "Oh." He looked at her, then pulled his hand away so that he could wrap his arm around her waist. "So you want me there?"

"Do you want to come?" She looked up at him. "I didn't think you would."

"No." He tightened his grip on her waist. "But I'll go for you."

"I don't want to make you do something you don't want to, and since it's not my birthday, I'm not going to try to guilt you into going."

"Are you dressing up?" He turned toward her, and the tilt of his mouth made her shiver.

"Of course. It's Halloween."

"Then I'll be there."

* * *

Belle's protests about staying at Raphael's house on a weeknight had all been deflected with careful reasoning, helped along by the fact that she never actually wanted to leave his house because it was perfect. The logical part of her brain, however, knew that she shouldn't spend all of her nights there at this stage in their relationship, and so she had reasoned that she would go home to her own home on Halloween. She brought all of her things back to her apartment on Tuesday morning, though Raphael put forth a valiant effort to stop her from doing so, and then left without him an hour early that afternoon.

They were all meeting at Mary Margaret's house to get ready, since it was the biggest. Though they had at least four hours before they had to leave, Ruby had a lot of beautifying to do, and Belle was surprised at how busy the afternoon turned out to be. She was somehow still rushing to put her mascara on as they were walking out the door, and barely had time to gather all of her things in a pile on Mary Margaret's floor before she was being hurried out.

In comfortable shoes, the walk to Goldmine would have been reasonable, but Belle was feeling the ache from her stilettos before they were even halfway there. Mary Margaret had offered to drive, especially since it was in the forties and she was the only one wearing anything even remotely warm, but Ruby had put her foot down, as she always did. It was Halloween, and she intended for all of them to get trashed.

Goldmine was relatively empty when they got there, but it was only eight, and Belle knew that it wouldn't be long before the bar was packed. It had a reputation for being the best bar in town, and while other bars were boasting costume contests and Halloween drink specials to get some of the holiday crowd, that wouldn't take away any of Goldmine's success.

"There's Victor," Ruby said as they breezed by the bouncer. Everyone knew Ruby, so no one questioned the state of their IDs. She pointed toward the bar, where Victor was standing with Hook and two men that Belle had never seen before.

They squeezed their way over with no shortage of men stopping to gawk. Ruby wasn't wearing a costume so much as a red sequined slip and devil horns, and it was attracting about as much attention as Belle expected it to. Belle's own costume was racier than anything she'd ever warn before as well, and she tried not to notice how many of the stares flicked to her.

"Belle! There you are, love. And Mary Margaret! I thought you'd never arrive." Hook hopped off his barstool showing off his costume in all its glory. He had a well-tailored red coat, one that Belle knew had to have cost him a fortune, and a plumed red hat. In one hand, he was holding a hook, and in the other, an amber drink.

"Oh, Hook, I love your outfit," Belle said, surprised at how much she agreed with her own words. When Hook had told her that it had become tradition, she assumed that he donned a hook and a shirt, to keep himself limber and visible to the ladies. Instead, not only was he wearing the coat and hat, he was even wearing leggings and buckle shoes.

"And you look perfect." He slung an arm around her shoulders. "Mary Margaret, you are a vision. A fucking vision. We're a shoo-in for the group costume contest."

"You think so?" Mary Margaret asked, biting her lip like she was trying to keep from smiling too much. At Hook's suggestion, she had dressed as Peter Pan, and Belle was surprised with how involved she'd gotten. Together, she and Hook were a perfect costume pair.

Belle, on the other hand, was feeling a little self-conscious about her own involvement in the group costume. "I should have bought a wig and just done Tinkerbell," she said, chewing her cheek. Since she wasn't dressed as Tinkerbell, she wasn't exactly matching, but she was dressed as a fairy. She'd gone for purple and black instead of green and white, and was pleased with the outcome, but still felt like she was going to be the losing link.

"We never found Tinkerbell wings, remember?" Hook said, tapping her on the nose. "These were perfect anyway. You look perfect. You can be that other fairy from that new thing. The dark one."

"Right. Tinkerbell's friend."

"Cheer up and have a drink. You look gorgeous. And look at that group." He pointed to a cluster of people in super hero t-shirts and jeans, with sheets draped over their backs. "They didn't even try."

"Fair point." Bracing herself on Hook's shoulder, she climbed onto the stool next to him. "Who'd you bring?"

He curled his arm around her waist before introducing her to his two friends, Will and Leroy, who didn't look at her with half as much interest as they looked at the drinks the bartender was pouring. Will was dressed as Smee, in a red had and blue striped shirt, but Leroy didn't appear to be costumed at all. Mary Margaret knew him, but when she tried to wave, he grunted her off.

"He's kind of antisocial," Mary Margaret said when Belle raised an eyebrow. "When's—"

She was interrupted by the bartender slapping two juice glasses in front of them, filled about an inch high with something milky and green.

"What's this?" Mary Margaret's forehead wrinkled.

Belle looked at Hook, who looked equally surprised to see the shots there.

"Melon ball. From those guys." The bartender jerked his head, and the three of them turned to see their mysterious benefactors.

"Who's that?" Hook asked, wrinkling his nose, but Belle and Mary Margaret were both flushed pink. A group of students was waving to them from the corner, and they raised their hands back.

"They're some of my students," Belle said, reaching around behind her for the shot.

"And some of mine," Mary Margaret added.

"Cheers."

They raised their glasses toward the group before chugging them back, and Hook cheered like he'd been the one to provide. The bartender took their glasses, and Belle could have used some water, but didn't want to order it with Hook paying such close attention. Instead, she swiveled on her stool to face the door, crossing her legs at the ankle.

"You know, you can't hang on me all night," she said, looking down at Hook's arm around her waist.

"'Course not. I can't have all the women thinking I'm taken. Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, could you move now? Raphael should be here soon."

"What?" He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed so tightly, they looked like a crippled caterpillar. "He's coming? Here? Tonight?"

"Yes, he's coming here, tonight." She glanced at Mary Margaret to see if she was listening, but her face was impassive and Belle had trouble deciding whether she was feigning disinterest or not.

"But I need you to be my wingwoman. Willie's useless." He jabbed a thumb behind him. "And what the hell is he going to do at a bar anyway?"

"I'll do my best to be a wingwoman," she promised, reaching over to squeeze his plastic hook.

"You promise?"

"I pro—"

"Oh my god, Belle." Mary Margaret's hand clamped down on Belle's forearm like a robot claw, squeezing hard enough that Belle winced.

"What? What's wrong?" She followed her friend's gaze to the door, and found Raphael. Breaking into a smile, she waved him over.

"How did you get him here?" Mary Margaret asked, face paler than Belle had ever seen it.

"You invited him, remember?" She couldn't recall Mary Margaret ever being this afraid of Dr. Gold, but maybe something had happened between the invitation and now. She wouldn't have been too surprised to learn that he had done something terrifying, like threaten her students or her family.

"No, I didn't!"

"He said you were there—with Ruby?" Belle tried to keep the confusion off her face, because she was watching Raphael thread his way toward her, and didn't want to alarm him. From where she stood, he didn't seem to have done anything costume-wise, but she would wait for that judgment until he had made his way over.

"What?" Mary Margaret turned to her, looking like she'd just seen the ghost of someone who'd wanted to kill her. "Ruby invited him?"

"Wait." Belle gave an apologetic wave to Raphael—who was now stuck behind a group of bulky football players—and turned to Mary Margaret. "Who are you talking about?"

A man in a flannel shirt cut through the football players, beckoning to Raphael to follow. Mary Margaret's eyes widened, and she leaned in to whisper, "David!"

No one had mentioned David's name in weeks, and Belle didn't connect it with the man leading Raphael until he stopped in front of Mary Margaret's frozen, horror-stricken face. Raphael sidled over to Belle as though nothing was happening, and she assumed that this meant that David's presence was his fault. She hoped it was a good thing.

"Hey, Mary Margaret," David said, hands stuffed in his pocket.

It felt like the whole bar had stopped to watch the interaction, but it was just Belle and Hook who were now leaning closer. Gold was standing a couple inches from Belle's knees, hands draped over the head of his cane, looking somewhere to the left while the corners of his mouth twitched.

Mary Margaret swallowed, and Belle tapped the side of her foot with her toes, for support. "David. What are you doing here?"

"I left Kathryn."

Mary Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it into a tiny o. Her mouth did the same thing twice more, before she turned to Belle. "What?"

"He left Kathryn," she repeated, hoping that was his wife and not another mistress on the side or something.

"Yeah—uh, Gold's helping us with the divorce papers."

Mary Margaret looked from Gold to David, and then back to Belle. Was she expected to interpret? With the look Mary Margaret was giving her, she knew she had to at least do something.

"Hi, David. I'm Belle." She stuck her hand out. "It's nice to meet you. Would you like to join us?"

David looked at her as if he was just noticing her, and then hastened to shake her hand. Then, he looked at Raphael, who was staring off to the left, eyes blank.

"Uh, sure. That is—if Mary Margaret doesn't mind."

Mary Margaret looked at him, then at Gold, who Belle was pleased to see was twitching his lips in encouragement. When she turned back to David, she was chewing the corner of her lip. "You're not wearing a costume."

"Oh." He fumbled around in his flannel pocket before coming up with a set of plastic fangs. After affixing them to his teeth, he smiled. Mary Margaret offered a small one in return, and reached for David's hand.

Satisfied that Mary Margaret was going to be okay, Belle turned to Raphael, who stepped closer to her without her even having to pull him.

"And where's your costume?"

He was standing close enough that she could have touched her forehead to his, but she was sure that, had any of the students seen Dr. Gold walk in, they would be staring, so she didn't. Instead, she allowed her hand to drift by her thigh, and his cane found its way over there as well, and then she draped hers over his while Hook moved his knee to block them from view.

"It's right here." He gestured to himself with his free hand. He was wearing a charcoal suit, with a dark grey waistcoat and emerald tie. His pocket square was peach.

"You're dressed the same as you always are."

"I'm in festive colors." He pointed between his pocket square and tie. "See? Pumpkin."

She wanted to glare, but he was giving her the tiny smile to which she was becoming accustomed, and it still made her feel like her body was made of cotton candy. She wrapped her free fingers around his lapel under the guise of straightening it. "Do you have sunglasses or something? You could be a secret service agent."

"Of course I don't have sunglasses. We're in a dark bar." He gestured around to the packed room, which was dim enough to make unhindered vision difficult. He put his hand over hers. "Let's just say I'm dressed as a lucky man, with a beautiful date."

It wasn't like she could argue with that. She tightened her fingers over his, and he took a half step closer. "Well, you have a very convincing costume, then."

"It helps that my date looks beautiful, as expected."

"Ugh." Hook slapped his empty glass on the counter next to Belle's elbow, making her jump. "You guys are disgusting."

"Shut up," Raphael said, dropping Belle's hand so that he could move closer to her other side and the bar.

"Don't fight," Belle said, glaring at Hook. "You'll just have to share me."

"Share?" Raphael scrunched his mouth, glaring sideways at Hook. "I think not."

"Me too." Hook folded his arms.

Belle shrugged. "Well, then I'll just go stand with Ruby and flirt with the men around her." She pointed to the cluster surrounding Ruby. Raphael moved so that their sides were pressed together, and if he'd been a wolf, his hackles would have been up.

"Fine, but it's my turn now."

* * *

It took Hook two drinks and half an hour to decide that it was his turn, and then Belle had to concede because she had promised to be his wingwoman, and he had found a target. In exchange for her services, he had made himself a human wall so that Belle could kiss Raphael before leaving him at the bar. She wasn't worried about Ruby and Mary Margaret anymore—Ruby looked like she was trying to make Victor jealous, and Mary Margaret was too wrapped up in David to notice much—but the students were still there, and she knew they looked every so often.

"Hook, I don't know how to be a wingwoman," Belle said, allowing him to tow her toward a petite blonde dressed as a bunny. "I can only mimic lines I've seen on TV."

"It's okay, I just need you to stand by and swoon when I deliver my line, and make it look like any girl would be lucky to have me. Can you do that, love? Can you swoon?"

"I look stupid swooning alone," she said, chewing her lip. "Can't you get Leroy to stand with me?"

"One sec." He stopped them a few feet away from the girl, and tapped a man in a toga on the shoulder. He was at least as tall as Gaston, as were his two toga-clad friends, and both Belle and Hook had to look up to see them.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Could you stand with my friend for a minute? She hates being lonely." Hook winked, and Belle was too surprised to let out the indignant splutter building in the back of her throat. She should have dragged Mary Margaret.

"Yeah, sure." Toga Man grinned, turning to face Belle. She had to step back to see his face. "I'm Joe."

"Belle," she said, glancing over at Raphael. He was watching like a snake.

"Nice costume. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Um." She tried to listen to what Hook was saying, since they were only about a foot apart, but he was facing the other way, and it was hard to make it out. He had coordinated them so that she and the bunny were in direct eye-contact, however, so she tried to base her own reactions on the other woman's face. "No, thanks. I've got one."

It was only when he furrowed his brow that she realized she'd left her sex on the beach with Raphael, and that she now just looked like a terrible liar. She was opening her mouth to fix it when Hook kicked her ankle, and she tripped forward.

"Oh, he's so romantic," she said, trying to turn her stumble into a swoon.

Toga Joe caught her, looking confused, and Belle tried to shoot Hook a wistful look that the bunny would see, but then all of their efforts were halted by one of the other toga wearers stepping forward and shouting, "Hey!"

He barreled between Belle and Joe, and Belle stumbled backward, catching herself on some poor girl dressed as a tiger. Hook had about half a second to realize that he was a target before the man was grabbing him by the expensive collar. The bunny gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

"Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?" he yelled, looming over Hook. "That's my girlfriend."

Hook raised his hands, but was grinning like a languid cat, as if he wasn't being held by the collar by a man twice his size. "Well, maybe you should pay more attention to her."

Belle skidded over, trying not to fall. "Hey!" When only Hook looked at her, she tugged on Toga's hairy arm. "Let go of him. You can't beat someone up because your girlfriend was flirting with them. If you don't want her to flirt with respectful, charming men, then maybe you should learn to be more respectful and charming yours—"

He flung her off his arm like he was swatting a fly, and Belle tumbled back again. Hook had managed to wrest himself free, though, and he caught her before anything horrible could happen. Toga advanced on them again, though Belle suspected it was Hook he was after. Before he could take more than a step, there was a resounding crack—the crash of wood against flesh.

He let fly a string of curses, hunching sideways to reveal Raphael standing behind him, cane poised to strike. Belle's eyes widened, and she all but sagged against Hook as now Gold advanced on his foe.

While no one in the bar had stopped what they were doing before, now that Dr. Gold was in the mix, there was silence.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?" Gold hissed, focused on his retreating prey. "It's not polite to hit a lady."

Belle found her voice and stepped forward, Hook's hand a comforting weight under the wings on her back. "He didn't hit me! It's okay."

Gold's eyes flashed to her, but that was the only indication he gave that he'd heard. Maybe this was why everyone was so afraid of him.

"Hey, I didn't hit her, she was—" He was interrupted by the whip-like crack of Gold's cane hitting his forearm.

"Stop!" Belle lurched forward, half walking, half sliding in her heels. "I'm okay." She latched onto Raphael's arm, regaining her balance. Gold stood still and panted, but he didn't take his eyes off the man in front of him, who was holding his wrist like he was afraid it would split in two.

"You're fucking crazy, old man."

With a snarl that was more rabid dog than human, Gold reared back. Belle didn't have time to gather her courage, and could only leap blindly for his arm and hope her weight would stop him. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her on purpose, but a small part of her feared that she'd be caught in the cane's path. Toga let out a high-pitched noise that he would likely not admit to later, arms flying up to cover his face.

"Stop. Raphael, please."

He had to throw his cane forward because of momentum, but she could tell the difference in his stance as soon as the words left her mouth. Instead of whipping it through the air, he slashed downward, tapping it twice on the ground before regaining his balance. Belle let out the breath she'd been holding, and clung tighter to his arm.

Gold didn't look at her. He had his gaze leveled at the other man, somehow managing to not look like he was looking up at him, even though he was almost a foot taller.

"Get. Out." His voice was low, but he commanded a room's presence like he commanded his classroom's, and there wasn't anyone within range who didn't hear what he said.

"You can't—"

Gold raised his cane. "I said, 'get out.'"

After one last look around, the man screwed his face up like he wanted to speak, but didn't take long to start walking. The crowd parted for him, and he beckoned his friends to follow. When he beckoned his bunny girlfriend, however, she hesitated. Belle, still clinging to Raphael's arm, looked at her.

"You should stay if you want to," she said.

The woman chewed her lip, then straightened up. Toga spared her a glare before making his way out, leaving them in the only silent bar Belle had ever been in. The only noise in the room was Michael Jackson.

With everyone staring, Belle felt her stomach sink. She knew she was going to have to explain things to a lot of people, but mostly she was sure that her night was about to be cut short.

"We should probably go," she whispered.

"Yeah." He nodded once, shifting so that her arms rested more comfortably around his. She squeezed his elbow, giving him a smile that she hoped would calm him down, and reassure him that she wasn't mad at him.

As soon as he took a step forward, the entire bar erupted into cheers. They froze.

"What—" Raphael looked at Belle, as though she could explain what was happening.

"I don't—"

"God, that guy was such a douche," someone near the front said.

"Yeah, he was in here all the time, and no one ever stands up to him. Fuck that guy."

People shouted their assent, and then there was some jostling, and a clear path to the bar appeared. The bartender set three shots down. "That guy's been a pain in my ass every week. These are on the house."

The bar erupted into cheers again. Belle didn't move, and neither did Raphael, but Hook made his way past them and to the shots, claiming his third. He looked like someone had just announced that it was his birthday.

"Well, come on then. I guess I owe you now, crocodile."

Belle and Raphael looked at each other, and then made their way over to the bar as the cheers died down, and people went back to their conversations.

"What is it?" Raphael asked, wrinkling his nose.

Hook downed his, swirling the dregs around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. "Whiskey. Cheap."

Raphael shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Oh, come on. Don't be such a wet blanket. Here, Belle. Show him how it's done." Hook handed her one of the glasses, and she stared at it. She missed the melon ball—that had been delicious. She could smell this whiskey before the glass was even in her hand.

"I don't really—" She looked at his face, and sighed. "Fine." She downed it, and shuddered. Raphael backed away, looking like a cornered beast.

"Come on, old man. Don't you want to keep up with your girlfriend?"

"Hook—"

His challenge was effective, though—as Belle knew it would be—and Raphael grabbed the shot.

* * *

An hour later, almost every group in the bar had bought rounds for Raphael and Hook—his students had bought two—and they were both screaming at each other with accents so whiskey-thickened, it was impossible for anyone else to understand them. Mary Margaret had torn herself away from David—or, really, Hook and Raphael had torn David away from her to be their objective third party—and she was sitting with Belle, looking lighter than she had in weeks. They had both been nursing cosmos for the better part of the hour.

"These are the men in my life," Belle said, shaking her head.

"Hey, you could have it a lot worse," Mary Margaret said, still smiling over at David. He was drinking beer, and casting helpless looks their way every few minutes. He couldn't understand them any better than anyone else could.

"I know. Hey, did David tell you who invited him?"

"Yeah. Dr. Gold did, actually. I didn't know he knew." At that, Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow at Belle, who shook her head.

"I didn't tell him, I swear. He knew already. He knows everything."

Mary Margaret chuckled. "I guess I'm not that surprised. I am surprised that he invited him, though."

Belle took a sip of her drink to hide her affectionate smile, but was unable to keep her gaze from straying to her boyfriend. "I'm not."

What she was surprised about was the fact that the stoic, prim professor was as wasted as the man dressed as a pirate trying to get laid by as many women as possible. How was he going to get home? She doubted he would let even her drive his Cadillac.

"Why don't you join in?" Mary Margaret asked, raising an eyebrow. "You look like it's killing you."

"Then he'll never get home," she said, shaking her head.

"Belle, I think he can afford a taxi."

She watched him for a few seconds, considering, and then swiveled on her barstool to face Mary Margaret. When she did, she came face to face with a group of her students—who had been lurking there for who knew how long. She jumped.

"Hi, guys." She wished she could cover up the top of her dress, but the damage was done. At least it wasn't as bad as Ruby. Mary Margaret turned around to face them, too.

"So what's up with Dr. Gold?"

"Yeah, what the hell, Belle?"

Belle took a sip of her drink, and shrugged. "I really don't know. Your guess is as good as mine." She didn't want to know—as long as she didn't hear her own name, she was content to leave them to their fighting.

"Hey, you need a refill? We bought his drinks for saving you."

"You deserve one, too."

Belle chewed her lip. "Oh, no, thank you, though. You already bought me something."

"Oh, come on, Belle. It's just one more drink." Mary Margaret winked, and Belle missed the Mary Margaret who was too sad to peer pressure her.

"Oh, all right." Tipping her head back, she chugged the rest of her drink to the tune of rowdy cheers, then handed over her glass to get another one.

* * *

Subtlety went out the window as Belle worked on her third cosmo, and Hook left his argument with Raphael to win the group costume contest with Mary Margaret and Will. She had tried to keep some shred of logic, but her mind felt like it was wrapped in a sweater, and Raphael had attached himself to her waist and was rumbling compliments about her costume into her ear. She couldn't understand half of them, but she liked the sound of his accent and the huskiness of his voice, and she just wanted to press him up against the bar and lick the remnants of whiskey off his mouth.

When his compliments turned to open-mouthed kisses below her ear, Belle had the sense to know it was time to go. He was down to her neck by the time she managed to signal to David that they needed a cab, and then she felt his teeth and she had to pry him away before anything embarrassing happened in the bar.

It was cold outside, but the vodka had warmed Belle, and she didn't need the jacket that Raphael draped over her shoulders before they walked out. It smelled like him, though, so she tugged it on backwards, sliding her arms through the wrong sleeves so that the buttons were in the back and nothing snagged her fairy wings.

"I love you wearing my clothes," he growled into her ear as she slid past him into the taxi. It took all of her self control—and a lot of lip-biting—to keep from dragging him into the car on top of her, instead of letting him get in at the pace his knee required.

The directions to his house had barely left his lips before Belle's were on them. She didn't bother with a seatbelt, because that would have hindered her crawling onto his lap. He tried to help her, but his movements were exaggerated and clumsy, and the best they managed was to get one of her legs sprawled across his thighs while her other knee dug into his hip. Their mouths fell apart whenever the cab turned, but it didn't stop them, and Raphael just held tighter to her hair.

Belle felt like she'd been rubbed against a balloon, and the static was prickling all over her body, warming her from the inside out. She couldn't get close enough to him, couldn't soothe the burning pinpricks on her arms and legs and belly and thighs. He tasted like cherries and whiskey, and he growled when Belle tried to suck the taste off his bottom lip.

The driver had to clear his throat three times before Belle realized that they'd arrived, and peeled herself off of Raphael.

"Thank you," she said, wiping around her lips with some absurd vanity about the state of her lipstick.

Raphael handed over a hundred. "Don't tell anyone about this."

The cabbie's jaw sagged watching Belle and Raphael stumble out after each other, probably surprised at the generosity of the town leech as well as the fact that there was an attractive young woman throwing herself at him.

Had she been sober, she'd have been embarrassed, but all she could think about was getting up to the house, getting the jacket and wings off, and finding somewhere with more room to continue devouring his face. It took too many fumbling attempts for Raphael to get the key into the front door, and by the time he got it open, Belle was standing on her toes, plastered against his back, lips making a trail from his pulse to his collar.

He mumbled something as he fell through the doorway, and she thought she made out the word "killing."

"What was that?" She closed and locked the door behind them, trying to take the jacket off in the same motion, and getting tangled for her efforts. Soon Raphael's drunken hands found their way over hers, and helped ease the jacket off her arms. She started the struggle with the wings while he went to hang it up, and that was a battle she wasn't going win unless she sobered up.

Raphael came over to help, slurring out some things she still didn't understand. She caught words like "terrible" and "hell" and "death," and could only assume that he was bemoaning the fact that they were still wrestling with the wings.

"Raphael, I can't understand a word you're saying."

He got one loop off her arm, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, letting the wings dangle as he focused on trailing his mouth around her shoulder blade. "Hm?"

"Your accent. Too thick—oh, that feels—get the wings off." She held her arm out and, with his lips still skimming along the back of her neck, he started to tug them off.

Once the wings were on his coat rack, his hands returned to her back, and he ran his thumbs along the line of her shoulder blades. She swayed to the left, feeling like her legs might stop holding her up at any second, and they almost did when he traced his tongue along the juncture between her neck and collar.

"Your dress is too tiny," he growled, biting at her ear and missing more often than not. "Everyone was looking at you." She leaned back into him, and he lost balance, stumbling into the wall.

"Bed?" she suggested. Lying down sounded like a good idea. Then he could continue sucking on her earlobe from a better angle.

"Couch is closer."

He started nudging her toward the sitting room while she tried to kick off her heels.

"Bed is safer. More room," she said, just as he tripped over her shoes. He caught himself around her waist, and a snorting giggle bubbled up out of her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep more from escaping, but he had already heard one, and was now chuckling somewhere near her pulse. She shuddered.

"Are you trying to kill me?" He licked her neck again, and she considered asking him the same thing, but it was too difficult to multitask and she was already prying herself away from him to move toward the stairs.

"Maybe." She made it to the foot of the stairs, Raphael trailing a few feet behind her. He wasn't using his cane, but Belle forgot that thought as soon as she realized that they were both going to have to get up the stairs without killing themselves. She stopped, throwing her arms out. Raphael ran into her elbow and sprung back like a rock in a sling shot, grasping for the wall to regain his balance.

"What? What's wrong?"

"We should bring water and snacks so we don't need to come back down."

It was lucky that Raphael was a pack rat even when it came to grocery shopping, because it made finding portable food much easier. Belle carried a gallon of water, a bag of chocolates, and a jar of peanut butter, leaving Raphael to get the glasses, knife, and loaf of bread. They staggered up the stairs, only getting stabbed by the butter knife once apiece, which was a major accomplishment considering the amount they were both swaying. Since they hadn't been attached at the lips for a few minutes, some of the adrenaline was starting to wear off, and Belle was coming down from her buzz. Her eyelids were starting to droop.

"Oh, shoot," she said, stopping in the middle of his bedroom doorway. He crashed into her again, bouncing off of her sideways and into the wall. She scrambled to set everything down and retrieve him, getting stabbed in the fleshy part of her upper arm for her troubles.

"What's wrong?" he asked once they were walking again, Raphael clinging to Belle's arm and Belle holding the knife for safety.

"I meant to go home tonight."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Oh well."

"It was important to me!" She tried to maneuver them around the water, but stubbed her toe on it for all her efforts, and ended up half-hopping the rest of the way to the bed.

"I don't understand why you don't just stay here forever," Raphael said, allowing her to deposit him on the side of the bed she'd claimed for herself. He started working on his tie while Belle went to get the food, toe still smarting.

"It's a bit early for forever, don't you think?" She yawned, bending down to get the cursed water jug first.

"No, no, think about it, Belle. It's practical. Bloody—fuck this tie—Belle, did we break my fingers?"

"Do they hurt?" She yawned again, and when she bent to pick up the chocolates, her stomach rolled. She clamped her mouth shut, eyes watering with the effort of stifling her yawn, and pressed her hand over it.

"No, they're not—fucking hell, I finally got it. I have a bed that doesn't break, Belle. It's king sized. It's not from Craig's List and it's like sleeping on a fucking cloud. You remember you said how well you sleep here, Belle?"

She plopped down on the floor, eyes closed and hand pressed to her mouth.

"Belle?"

She swallowed a few times, then stood when she felt she could. "I sleep well here because you make me feel safe, not because your bed is like a cloud."

He watched her walk over to him, taking her hands and pulling her down onto his lap once she was in reach. "Seems like the perfect reason to stay forever."

"Raphael—"

"Shh." He put a finger over her lips, which slipped down to her chin twice before he got it to stay, and Belle's snickering almost made it slip a few more times. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"But your finger—"

"Shh." He moved his finger, but kissing at this angle proved tricky even without that obstacle, and he ended up kissing the side of her mouth until she shifted around to straddle him.

With a noise somewhere between a dog being stepped on and a snake hissing, Raphael crushed his lips against hers. Belle was more exhausted and less drunk than she had been in the cab, but that didn't change the fact that she needed to rub against him like a cat to ease the maddening tingle under her skin. He still tasted like whiskey, and Belle licked his tongue to see if that did, too.

The skirt of her dress had ridden up nearly to her waist, which gave Raphael the space to cup her thighs so that she would have better leverage. Soon, their bodies were moving too much for their lips to stay in contact, so Belle brought her mouth to his neck, kissing along his stubble.

He ran his hands up and down her thighs and she felt like she was on fire, and then her stomach lurched and she stilled.

"What's wrong?" He pressed a kiss to her neck, loosening his grip.

"Oh, nothing, just going to go vomit now. If you'll just—excuse me." She climbed off of him, kicking him more than was probably good for his knee in her haste to make it to the toilet before she threw up her insides.

She could hear the sounds of his footsteps, but only every time she took a breath before heaving. She wanted to close the door and yell at him not to come look at her, but it occurred to her that this was not the first time she'd thrown up in something of his. This time, at least, she could flush it down, instead of handing it off to a poor custodian and having to lie about food poisoning.

He leaned on the counter next to her, stroking her hair. Why wasn't he throwing up? He had had at least twice as much as she had.

"This should be you," she choked out, spitting.

"Scottish," he reminded her.

When she finished gagging, she used the counter to pull herself up, flushing everything away as soon as she had a free hand. Now that there was nothing inside of her, she felt sober and dehydrated, and she just wanted to sleep.

"I don't have a toothbrush," she said, inching toward the sink.

"I've got an extra." He moved toward the medicine cabinet while she started to rinse her mouth out. After a thorough gargling, he handed her an unopened brush.

"I don't have pajamas, either," she said, fumbling with the box.

"Well, I guess you'll have to sleep naked, then."

She pursed her lips at him in the mirror, and he grinned like a kitten in a pile of unraveled yarn. Raphael's smiles were much sweeter when he was drunk.

"Are you going to stay here and watch the whole time?" she asked, muffled by the toothbrush and a mouth full of foam.

"Oh." He blinked like the idea that he could move had never occurred to him. "Right. I'll get the buttons."

She didn't realize what that meant until he pushed himself off the counter and started fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. "Wait a second," she said when she had rinsed and spit twice and he still hadn't managed to get more than one button undone. He stopped moving like an obedient dog, waiting for Belle to finish up with her teeth and come get the buttons for him.

"Can you get my zipper?" she asked, undoing the last button.

He nodded, and she turned around, presenting him with her back. She could feel his hands quaking as he ran his fingertips along the backline of the dress. His mouth replaced his fingers as soon as he found the zipper, kissing along her sweat-sticky back while he worked his hands at the fastenings. She sighed when his mouth strayed lower, passing the line of her bra and down to the small of her back, and held on to the counter for support.

When he reached the bottom of her spine, his lips just brushed it, and then he was straightening up and pressing his forehead below her neck.

"I'm so old," he whispered.

It took Belle a few seconds to realize that, somewhere in the middle of his ministrations, something had happened—whether it was a reaction to her youth, or just him feeling feeble as the alcohol wore off, she couldn't say. Whatever the reason, she had to fix it, so she turned around and slid her hands up his cheeks. The effort it took to get him to look at her had more to do with his lack of focus than his sudden self-deprecation, she knew, but she still felt like she had won a small battle when his eyes met hers.

"You're perfect the way you are," she told him, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth.

His head swayed, and when he spoke, he closed his eyes in concentration. "Belle, look—look at me. I'm a broken old—ancient—old monster who can't stand straight, and you—you're so young and—and beautiful and perfect."

"You're not." She kissed him again. "You, exactly as you are right now, at this exact age, are the man that I want to be with. And you can't stand straight because you're still drunk. I don't care how Scottish you are, you drank a lot."

His lip twitched like he wanted to laugh, but couldn't quite manage it.

"Sometimes, I don't think you're real."

Her breath caught, and she felt her eyes get warm. She knew she couldn't cry, though, because he would inevitably take it the wrong way, so she blinked a few times to get it under control. Then, she moved one hand from his face to cover his hand. After moving their joined hands to her shoulder, she pressed down so that he would squeeze.

"See? I'm real." She did it again. "And you can always pinch me when you forget."

He looked at her, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. He trailed his hand up her arm, across her shoulder and neck, stopping when he was cupping her cheek with his fingers in her hair.

"You're funny," he said, and she couldn't tell if he was trying to compliment her or just stating a fact.

"I like you," she told him. "I like everything about you."

He tilted her head with a little more force than he would have sober, but Belle tried to help him out by following his hand movements. "I like you, too," he said, just before he pressed his lips to hers.


End file.
